


A Little Anal

by bendingsignpost



Series: talk [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Anxiety Disorder, Bisexual Dean Winchester, Blow Jobs, Castiel/Dean Winchester BDSM, College Student Dean Winchester, Dom/sub Play, Domestic Castiel/Dean Winchester, Established Castiel/Dean Winchester, Established Relationship, Explicit Sexual Content, Kink Negotiation, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Openly Gay Castiel (Supernatural), Panic Attacks, Professor Castiel (Supernatural)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-03
Updated: 2019-06-10
Packaged: 2020-04-07 06:47:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 18,805
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19079692
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bendingsignpost/pseuds/bendingsignpost
Summary: (Sequel toFour Letter Word For Intercourse, please read that first!)The end of Dean's second semester is going a lot more smoothly than the end of his first.For Cas, on the other hand... Maybe not so much.





	1. Studying

Mondays would suck if they didn’t mean guaranteed Cas time. As it is, they still suck, especially as spring creeps its way toward summer and Dean’s schedule races headlong toward finals.

 

_I hate this_ , Dean scribbles on the small notebook kept between them for this express purpose.

 

Cas glances over from his endless editing. His laptop screen displays the book-to-be, not the initial academic paper. In answer, Cas simply reaches over to take Dean’s left hand with his right, presses a kiss against Dean’s knuckles, and then carries on with the editing.

 

Even though there aren’t any of Cas’ students across from them today, Dean flushes. He tries not to squirm, because it’s fucking clear by the tiny smirk on Cas’ face that this is exactly the result Cas is aiming for.

 

Dean adds _a lot_ to the end of his sentence.

 

Cas leans over and pecks him silently on the cheek.

 

Dean maybe kinda dies inside a little. In a good way.

 

_If I complain about my finals enough, will you blow me in the bathroom?_

 

Cas eyes the notebook before eyeing Dean.

 

_No_ , Cas writes when a simple shake of his head would have sufficed.

 

Dean slumps down behind his own laptop screen to pout up at Cas.

 

Cas rolls his eyes, but his mouth twitches toward a smile. Lightly, he smacks Dean on the shoulder. Dean barely feels the swat, but Cas has that look about him, the one that often ends up with Dean’s stomach against Cas’ thighs, Cas’ hand hard against Dean’s ass, raised and bare.

 

Dean pulls it in, giving Cas a tiny salute. He goes back to studying, or at least he tries to. Cas squeezes his forearm when it’s time to change subjects, and Dean pulls out his camping thermos for a coffee break. They pass it back and forth, and Dean’s not sure what amazes him more: Cas’ pleased gratitude after, or the comfortable assumptions of physicality Cas makes in taking the coffee in the first place.

 

Damn, they’re such a couple.

 

It puts a distracting kind of pleasure inside him, so he switches to his easy class, the upper level Vonnegut one. Both Cas and Bobby love to point out the discrepancy in that, the combination of _easy_ and _upper level_ , but c’mon, Dean’s read the books before, that doesn’t count. He’s got a combo exam and essay deal, and he figures he’ll grab the essay question on free will and time travel.

 

He spends a lot of time flipping through his old personal paperbacks, sticking post-its inside while jotting page numbers into the chart on his notebook. Reference to time travel, reference to free will, instance of pivotal choice, instance of foretold choice. Despite encountering more and more evidence pointing away from free will, that’s still the side of the debate Dean lands on. Time for some secondary sources, he decides, only for Cas to squeeze his shoulder.

 

Dean looks back, blinking at the too quick passage of time, and yep, that’s the silent timer on Cas’ laptop screen.

 

And, weirdly, that’s an uncertain look on Cas’ face.

 

Dean tilts his head in a question.

 

Cas taps their joint notebook.

 

_If you study like that without complaining for the rest of the semester, you can have my ass after your finals._

 

Dean stares.

 

Dean rereads.

 

Dean stares at Cas.

 

Very serious, Cas nods.

 

Dean nods. A lot. Because there’s been some intercrural, a lot of rubbing, a lot of frottage, but when it comes to being inside Cas, the only place Dean’s dick has entered is Cas’ mouth. Which is awesome, needless to say, but fuck, Dean knows just how much Cas likes it when Dean presses up behind his balls for a little prostate massage.

 

_Worth the mess?_ Dean writes back.

 

_You clean up everything_.

 

_Deal_.

 

Dean grins, but Cas keeps up the serious expression, his gaze steady, until Dean quiets down. They’re already in the silent section of the library, as always, but Dean goes quiet anyway, even more. Lets Cas take him down from eager to calm, just by looking at him and breathing.

 

Only once Dean matches Cas’ mood does Cas smile, even faintly.

 

_Good boy_ , Cas writes.

 

Dean closes his eyes.

 

Cas puts his hand on Dean’s back, between his shoulder blades. That’s as far as Cas ever goes, as far as Cas is willing to go in the library, but fuck if Dean’s mind doesn’t race ahead the rest of the distance. Too soon, Cas removes the touch.

 

At the scrape of a pen, Dean looks down.

 

Cas has circled _Good boy_.

 

Last week, seated behind Cas’ desk at Cas’ home office, they’d furtively jerked each other off, eyes closed, pretending to be right here. Quietly shushing each other. Slowly working each other.

 

Here and now, Dean lowers his hand under the table.

 

Cas’ eyes widen.

 

Dean puts his hand on Cas’ thigh. Just there, no higher. On the somewhat rough fabric of his dress pants. Dean squeezes.

 

Cas’ nostrils flare.

 

Dean removes his hand. He makes a show of getting back to work, switching subjects.

 

_You’ll be the death of me_ , Cas writes, but he looks at Dean so fondly.

  
  
  
  
  


Dean puts his back into it. He makes his study guides. He makes his flashcards. All semester, he’s been doing that thing Cas taught him about one hour, one day, one week: reviewing new information on that paced out schedule to ease it into long-term storage. And it seems like it’s working, too. Which is a hell of a good thing, because Dean has to seriously pull back when it comes to leaning on Cas.

 

Even before finals week, Dean cottons on to the fact that Cas definitely set up this goal for him because Cas himself is stressed out of his mind. Cas’ initial paper about his sex work findings is already out there, meaning Cas is getting responses on it. All of this while writing an entire book on the impact of sex work on the sexualities of the workers.

 

And then teaching classes.

 

With an anxiety disorder.

 

With that in mind, Dean looks around at his own classes, at his business with employees he trusts, at a boss who’s always had his back, and he feels pretty damn relaxed. His therapist Missouri actually gives him a great big smile when he mentions it, but then, sessions with her have always been worth every penny of his insurance. Again taking a page out of Cas’ book, Dean had taken the effort to track down a therapist specializing in LGBTQ issues, and fuck, if that hasn’t paid off.

 

In any case, Dean’s okay. Well, okay enough. And it actually feels pretty great, shouldering a little more of the weight in this relationship.

 

The nights he’s over at Cas’ apartment, Dean cooks, and he cooks big. He fills up Cas’ tupperware with leftovers, and he always brings decent beer. Often, Cas isn’t in the mood for anything raunchy before bedtime, but Dean wakes up with Cas stroking his dick in the middle of the night a scintillating number of times. As theorized, Cas’ sex drive is highest when his meds are wearing off, but because Cas is completely not a morning person, it comes out more in the small hours of the morning, long before Cas’ body fully accepts that it’s bedtime.

 

Those nights are like winning the lottery, or getting a sexual midnight snack. The other nights pass without incident, but Dean wakes up in the morning with a hard dick pressed against the cleft of his ass, with an arm wrapped around his middle. Those mornings, Cas’ first groggy word of the day is always something like “Dean” or “sweetheart” or an annoyed “no” as Dean tries to get out of bed.

 

Dean maybe kinda dies inside, how much he enjoys that.

 

Cas grumbling over Dean getting up in the morning, forever personally offended that reality is calling, is hands down Dean’s favorite way to start his day. So if Dean starts sleeping over more, well, Cas has the bigger kitchen anyway. More space in general. And it helps Dean keep his work/life balance thing going, not living over the garage all the time. Plus, it takes the pressure off spending time together. When they’re working in the library, they’re side-by-side and focused on their own shit, but designated date nights end up feeling rushed when the pressure’s on for both of them. Better to just coexist for now.

 

After finals, when Dean’s finally free for the summer, he’ll go back to living above the garage. For now, Cas appreciates the rides home, and Dean appreciates having someone praise his mediocre cooking. In the mornings, Dean simply drives back to the garage, changes clothes, and starts his workday that way, ready to repeat the cycle of Work, School, Cas. He’s sleeping over, not moving in.

  
  
  
  
  


He sleeps over every night for two weeks.

  
  
  
  
  


The night before Dean’s first final exam, Cas is the one climbing the walls. Almost literally, based on the way he paws across his bookshelves. When nothing there seems to satisfy, Cas turns instead to the TV, flipping through channels before scrolling through his DVR. Finally, Cas ends up searching endlessly through Netflix, never even stopping to check descriptions.

 

Stomach turning over, Dean tries to focus on his flashcards and totally can’t. He relocates into the bedroom, but Cas’ absence proves as distracting as his presence. Something’s up.

 

Dean comes back out. “Hey,” he says, standing in the tiny hallway back to the bedroom and office, positioned in the gap between kitchenette and living room. “You okay?”

 

“I’m taking a break,” Cas snaps, eyes still locked on the TV, as if this is something they’ve been arguing about for hours. “I needed a break, I’m taking a break.”

 

“ _Dude_ ,” Dean says.

 

Cas looks at him, so irate Dean nearly asks what the hell he’s done.

 

Except, no. Dean’s not wasting his money on therapy for nothing.

 

“You gotta talk to me before you yell at me,” Dean reminds him. “I’d listen to you whisper—you don’t gotta yell.”

 

Cas glares at him from the couch for one hard moment before deflating. He rubs at his face with both hands, sighing, groaning. “I need a break,” Cas repeats, this time in a mournful moan.

 

_Don’t puke, don’t puke, don’t puke._ “From… us?”

 

Cas sits bolt upright. He stares at Dean for half a second, and then he’s on his feet, he’s in Dean’s space. “ _No_. No.” His hands flutter in the space between them, reaching and withdrawing in a tight cycle, never actually touching. “I’m sorry, I’m being crazy. Knowing it doesn’t stop it. This isn’t helping, but nothing’s helping, and I need it to stop.”

 

Coming in slowly, Dean holds him by the shoulders. “Hey,” he says, lowering his voice. “Can you look at me?”

 

Cas bobs a frantic series of nods, practically a tremble of the head.

 

“You got your panic attack meds handy? They’re in the bedroom, right?”

 

“I had a beer with dinner.”

 

“Yeah, I don’t think that was strong enough,” Dean understates.

 

Cas shakes his head. “No, it’s, I can’t mix them. Panic meds and alcohol.”

 

“What happens if you do?”

 

“I’m not sure, but I’m terrified to try,” Cas answers.

 

“So the opposite of knocking out your anxiety. Okay. Uh.”

 

Cas looks up at him helplessly, visibly fighting his own brain.

 

“We’re gonna sit down on the couch,” Dean decides for him. He pulls Cas along with him but hardly needs to. Cas keeps close, a guilty cast to his features.

 

“I shouldn’t be distracting you,” Cas apologizes even as Dean tucks Cas tight against his side. “You’ve been so good about studying, I can’t be doing this right now.”

 

“You _can_ be doing this, and you are. And I’ve been so good at studying, I can stand to be a little distracted. Okay?”

 

“Okay,” Cas says into his shoulder, and it sounds like a lie.

 

“You’re gonna breathe with me, okay?”

 

“Okay.”

 

“Because I got you.”

 

Cas doesn’t breathe with him.

 

“C’mon, baby,” Dean urges, cupping the back of Cas’ head. “Say it: I got you.”

 

“You got me,” Cas repeats.

 

“I’m gonna take care of you.”

 

“You’re going to take care of me.”

 

Too much guilt, the way Cas says it. “‘Cause I love taking care of you.”

 

“You-” Cas swallows. “You love taking care of me.”

 

“Yeah,” Dean says, and kisses his forehead. “Just gonna keep breathing and ride this out.”

 

Cas shakes his head against Dean’s lips before resuming his position tucked against Dean’s neck. He mutters something like “wasting your time.”

 

“Too bad, dumbass, it’s my time to waste.”

 

Cas hiccups something almost like a surprised chuckle.

 

“Fucking awesome way to waste time, too,” Dean continues. “Got a hot piece of ass basically in my lap. Getting my hands all over you.”

 

Cas snorts.

 

“Oh yeah, baby, talk anxious to me,” Dean adds, and Cas lets out an actual laugh. A tiny one, but definitely a laugh. “Gonna drive you crazy in _all_ the ways.”

 

“Dean.”

 

“Are you an SSRI? ‘Cause, babe, you’re Serious So Really… uh. Intriguing?”

 

One hand on Dean’s shoulder, the other rubbing at his own eyes, Cas shoves Dean back with laughably little force. “That is the worst pick-up line I’ve ever heard.”

 

“Yeah, but you’re smiling, so it totally worked.”

 

Cas wipes at his face a few more times, looking away, his breathing still unsteady.

 

“Discuss or distract?” Dean checks.

 

“Distract. But I shouldn’t be distracting you.”

 

Dean grabs the obvious solution. “Cool, so help me study. Flashcards are more effective if I do them aloud, right?”

 

Cas nods, but he keeps a hand over his eyes. “I can’t read right now, though.”

 

That explains the bookshelf prowling. “Headache?”

 

“Eye ache.”

 

“Okay.” Keeping a hand on Cas’ arm, Dean pieces together a plan. “I’m gonna grab some shit, you gonna be all right for a minute?”

 

Cas bristles again like Dean’s gone and called him weak, but he sags almost immediately after. “I’ll be all right.”

 

“Awesome.” Dean kisses his forehead again. “Don’t get up. Or I’ll spank you.”

 

That doesn’t get so much as a twitch of a smile, so Dean works quickly. He gets Cas a glass of water, because water is always stage one. He passes it over with another forehead kiss, and then he’s off into the bedroom and rooting through their fun drawer. He returns with the blindfold dangling from one finger by its elastic, the cloth pitch black and just as soft. In his other hand, far less interesting, are his flashcards.

 

“Dean,” Cas says, a strange look on his face.

 

“Yeah?”

 

Cas stands up.

 

Dean blinks.

 

“I got up,” Cas says, still looking at Dean like that.

 

“You…” Dean’s brain skips like a scratched DVD, replaying a snippet of a moment while fighting to leap ahead. “I’m not spanking you, Cas.”

 

The look on Cas’ face gets worse. “Dean-”

 

“You’re the one always talking about kink not being therapy,” Dean interrupts. “Plus, I don’t think a panic attack is a good starting place for safe, sane, and consensual.”

 

“You’re safe and sane,” Cas says. “I’m consensual.”

 

Biting his lip, Dean squeezes his flashcards to the point of bending the pile. He looks at Cas, looks at Cas looking at him, and he doesn’t know what to do.

 

“I’m not gonna hit you,” Dean says, drawing a hard line. “That’s not happening.”

 

Disappointment rises behind Cas’ eyes.

 

Dean straightens his spine.

 

Lowers the timbre of his voice.

 

“Tell me you understand, Castiel.”

 

Closing his eyes, Cas lets out a hard exhale. Some of the tension flows out of him alongside the air. “I understand, Dean.”

 

“Good boy,” Dean says, this side of the familiar words strange on his tongue.

 

Another exhale, this time with a shiver.

 

Dean watches him, studies him, all the while feeling his own thoughts ping-pong around his mind until they finally smack into a solution Dean can pull off.

 

Because Dean knows Cas. And Dean knows how Cas Doms him when Dean’s the one twitching with tension.

 

So the clear answer is, think of the hottest thing Cas could do, and then do that.

 

Dean transfers the blindfold into his left hand, the hand already holding his flashcards. He stands tall and says, “Castiel, look at me.”

 

Castiel looks at him.

 

In one smooth motion of his right hand, Dean snaps his fingers and points. “Kneel.”

 

Castiel kneels in the space between the couch and coffee table. The easy, eager compliance turns Castiel unreal, unimaginable.

 

Dean approaches. He drops his flashcards on the couch, the rubber band wrapped bundle bouncing on the cushion. “Face up.”

 

Eyes closed, lips parted, Castiel tilts his face up, holding still as Dean puts the blindfold on him. “How’s the fit?”

 

“Good, Dean.”

 

“Can you see?”

 

“No, Dean.”

 

Dean slides the coffee table forward across the carpet, giving Cas more space. “Sit on your heels, back against the couch.”

 

Castiel shifts into position, but then he keeps shifting, fidgeting inside his skin. Dean dips into Castiel’s classic playbook and lays one hand atop his head.

 

“Are you going to make me pull?” Dean asks, a question Dean’s used to hearing while on his knees, not saying while on his feet. He tightens his grip on Castiel’s hair, letting Castiel decide.

 

Sitting up tall, Castiel presses the crown of his head up against Dean’s hand. “Please, Dean.”

 

“Say it.”

 

“Please pull my hair, Dean,” Castiel begs quietly, way too close to breaking.

 

Dean stands in front of him, his feet framing Castiel’s knees, and he tilts Castiel to one side and the other. He rocks Cas, breathing deep, making Cas sway and follow, turning him into a human metronome. What starts as compliance jerky from tension, soon becomes a sinuous slump, following Dean’s hand. Dean sways him in circles, pulls without tugging. This is slow and constant, and Dean says nothing when Castiel grabs his hips for balance.

 

Gradually, each circle widens, tilting Cas further, bringing Cas closer. Dean slows him down when he thinks Cas is ready, when Cas has gone loose as well as obedient. Little circles, then, still tilted forward, and Dean marvels at the irresistible sight of his boyfriend on his knees, cheeks flushed as pink as his lips beneath the inky black blindfold. When Dean sways him close, Castiel’s mouth opens, and not simply on the inhale of their rhythm.

 

He’s beautiful like this, amazing in a way Dean’s never seen him before, and Dean has no idea what to do with him now. He’d meant to do his flashcards with Cas’ head in his lap, but…

 

...but he can still do that.

 

“You wanna suck me, don’t you, baby?” Dean asks, because this is one of those moments where Cas would lay out the goals.

 

“Yes, Dean,” Castiel murmurs, his mouth mere inches from Dean’s crotch. How much can he tell? How much does he know from scent and heat, and how much from familiarity?

 

“You’re gonna wait until I’m ready, and you’re gonna stay where I want you. You can do that, can’t you, babe?”

 

“Yes, Dean.”

 

Dean pulls Castiel forward the rest of the scant distance between them. He drags the rough fly of his jeans against Castiel’s cheek, and Castiel lets out a moan so deep and low, a stone could drop for years down it without ever making an echo. Dean turns Castiel’s head by hand, repeats the drags on the other side of Castiel’s face. Lastly, he goes straight on, getting Castiel’s nose and breath right up against his crotch.

 

Hands tight on the backs of Dean’s thighs, Castiel grinds his face in.

 

Dean tugs him off.

 

Castiel groans like Dean’s never heard him, at once alarming the heart and enchanting the dick.

 

“You like that preview?” Dean checks.

 

“Yes, Dean.”

 

“You need another one? To, uh. To be good for me?”

 

“I’ll be good, Dean,” Castiel swears, swaying and earnest beneath Dean’s hand.

 

“Already are.” With a half-step forward, Dean shoves his crotch against Castiel’s face. The instantaneous groan, even through Dean’s jeans and boxer briefs, nearly has Dean’s knees buckling. He’s more worried than turned on, can’t help that, but even so. “Ah, fuck,” Dean swears, holding on tighter to Castiel’s hair than intended. “Fuck, you’re amazing.”

 

Castiel starts to mouth him through denim, and Dean nearly dies, all power diverted from life support, just to keep standing. Which, kinda counterproductive on the not falling down issue. So Dean tugs Castiel back with extreme regret.

 

Not as extreme, though, as the deprived look of disappointment across the visible half of Castiel’s face.

 

“You’re, fuck.” Dean takes a second. “You’re gonna stay put. Let go.”

 

Castiel drops his hands, his fingertips tracing down the outsides of Dean’s legs.

 

“Good boy. Don’t move.”

 

Trying to figure out how he’s getting onto the couch, Dean releases Castiel’s hair. He has half a second to judge whether he can swing his leg over Castiel despite his growing boner, and then-

 

“ _Dean_.”

 

Dean’s on his knees in an instant. The blindfold’s in his hand, pressed against Cas’ shoulder. Cheek cupped in Dean’s other hand, Cas stares back at him, mercifully looking less shaken than Dean feels.

 

“I’m okay,” Cas promises. “I’m- I need you to keep touching me.”

 

“Okay,” Dean promises in return. He ducks forward for a peck of a kiss, both frantic and chaste. “But this is good, though?”

 

“Dean, you’re amazing,” Cas says, and the next kiss goes on far longer than the first. It segues into making out, and Castiel only ups the intensity when Dean eases the blindfold back on him.

 

“Scoot forward a sec,” Dean instructs, keeping a hand on Castiel’s shoulder this time. He sits down on the couch and wraps his legs around Castiel’s middle. He tugs gently, awkwardly. “And scoot back.”

 

It’s harder, getting a read on Cas from behind, but the physical contact helps. The tension makes itself clear, and it soon reverts to the good kind. Especially when Dean lowers his feet, pressing each foot against the inside of Castiel’s knees.

 

“Spread ‘em, babe.”

 

Still kneeling, Castiel spreads them.

 

Perched on the edge of the couch, Dean slides one foot back, gets his calf and ankle over a spot worth monitoring.

 

“I’m gonna do my flashcards now,” Dean tells him, petting Castiel’s hair in what he hopes is a reassuring way. “Once I get, uh, sixty-five percent of them right—passing grade—you get to turn around. If you wanna hump my leg and distract me, totally up to you.”

 

Castiel’s head falls back, tilting backwards as if he’s trying to look up at Dean despite the blindfold, and it takes Dean a second to place the expression, upside-down as it is.

 

This is the incredulous, exasperated eye roll… complete with Castiel hard against his leg.

 

“You got a problem with that, Cas?”

 

“No, Dean,” Castiel rasps.

 

Dean scratches his fingernails against Castiel’s scalp, and his own heartbeat slows as Castiel tilts into the touch. Slowly, while giving Castiel a little squeeze with his legs, Dean withdraws his hands and finally picks up his flashcards.

 

He stares at the first term, mind blank, dick full.

 

Okay, he may have an issue here.

 

After a second of inwardly flailing, he does what he always does:

 

He bullshits.

 

“Oh no,” Dean deadpans. “I don’t know that one.” And he makes sure to rustle the cards loudly as he slips the top one to the back. He keeps up that narration on every card he’s less than totally certain of, checking the back of each as he sends it to the rear of the pile. Less than a dozen cards in, Castiel cracks.

 

“Dean, _please_.”

 

“Okay, okay,” Dean says, mostly because he’s finally gotten to the batch where he’s confident. He clears his throat and reads the term aloud before rambling out a more-or-less passable definition. He flips the card over, and yeah, doable. For a couple others, he’s a little off, and for these, he reads out the correct, full definition, deliberately taking his time.

 

He takes one entire first pass through before realizing he doesn’t actually know how many cards he has. He does the count, does some math, and he’s still not quite there yet. Not comfortably, at least. If he ditched all of his _maybe_ cards, he’d be past that mark.

 

In front of him, Castiel slowly sinks down, Dean’s thighs propping him under the armpits. Periodically, Castiel squirms higher as well, his legs trembling shut around Dean’s ankles. Castiel’s breathing grows more deliberate, more controlled, and it belatedly occurs to Dean that the trembling might have entered involuntary muscle spasm territory.

 

Fudging the numbers—Castiel is in no state to do math and call him on it—Dean puts aside the next card he gets fully right. “There we go. Let’s stretch you out and turn you around.”

 

Together, they get Castiel standing, a process that involves some hissing on Castiel’s part.

 

“You okay to kneel again?” Dean checks.

 

Blindfold still in place, Castiel nods, but he doesn’t verbally confirm. He’s still shaking from the strain, too. Kneeling with spread legs is a special kind of hell on stretching the tops of the thighs; Dean learned that one the hard way, in many senses of the word.

 

“You didn’t say yes, so you’re lying on the couch instead,” Dean tells him. “Face against my crotch, everything zipped. Can you do that?”

 

“Yes, Dean,” Castiel answers immediately.

 

They guide Castiel into position, and though the final faceplant into Dean’s crotch is a bit more hilarious than sexy, Dean ain’t laughing.

 

“Go ahead, baby. Make yourself comfy.”

 

Castiel nuzzles into place. At the same time, the blindfold shifts to the side of his head.

 

“Oops,” Castiel says.

 

“Lift your head.”

 

Castiel complies, and Dean fixes it for him.

 

“Back down.”

 

Dean smooths Castiel’s hair back into place, too. They shift together, Castiel sliding one arm around Dean’s waist, the other across Dean’s lap. And if Castiel keeps squirming a little even after they get settled, well, if a man can’t fuck his own couch, what’s the world coming to?

 

“Hold ‘em when I’m done,” Dean instructs, pressing the completed pile of flashcards into Castiel’s hand.

 

“Yes, Dean,” Castiel answers, the fucker, his mouth muffled against Dean’s fly, his hot breath already seeping through.

 

Dean threads his fingers through Castiel’s hair and absolutely doesn’t frot against Castiel’s mouth. “We’re going until I hit ninety percent.”

 

“Yes, Dean,” Castiel sighs, sighs like relief.

 

Things get harder, and not just Dean’s dick. Castiel can be one hell of a distraction, even silent in a library, so it’s a complete act of idiocy, attempting this with Castiel’s mouth so close to where they both want it. The more Dean chubs up, the more Castiel adjusts his head, shifting to follow, to press his lips along Dean’s shaft.

 

Dean’s leg starts trying to jiggle, but that’s seriously a bad idea right now. He lifts his feet instead, flexing his legs, and that helps a little, even as it fucks with his concentration all the more.

 

“Wait, hold on,” he says an agony later, and double-checks his count. “Awesome. Ready for the final stretch, baby?”

 

“Please, Dean.”

 

Dean helps ease Castiel up, and then he pulls Castiel closer. “Kneeling, facing me.”

 

“Yes, Dean.” Castiel complies rapidly, holding onto Dean’s knees to guide himself.

 

“Uh, if you still need contact, um. Scoot back a little, hands on my hips.”

 

Face aimed directly forward, Castiel shuffles back on his knees to sit on his feet.

 

Dean undoes his zip.

 

Castiel’s head jerks up, immediately orienting on the sound.

 

They push down Dean’s jeans together, and Castiel pulls them off entirely when Dean sits back down in his boxer briefs.

 

“Get your face between my legs where it belongs,” Dean orders.

 

Rising up on his knees, Castiel hugs Dean not around the waist, but around the ass. He mouths Dean furtively, as if stealing from a cookie jar—a nookie jar—and Dean follows the cue, metaphorically slapping Castiel’s hand away.

 

He tugs on Castiel’s hair, pulls Castiel off. “I didn’t tell you to suck.”

 

“No, Dean. Sorry, Dean,” Castiel rasps, his entire face flushed red.

 

Dean sinks down lower on the couch, giving Castiel more space. At the same time, he squeezes Castiel around the middle with his legs. “No dick in your mouth until I get all of these right. So you don’t want to distract me, do you?”

 

And Dean repositions Castiel in a way that is immediately, immensely distracting.

 

“No, Dean,” Castiel agrees anyway, the rumble of his voice and heat of his breath only making it worse.

 

Dean takes a second just to stare down at him, and then he takes a second more. Abruptly, he gets why Cas keeps asking if he can take more pictures in bed.

 

Dean’s phone is in his jeans, though. On the floor. And while Castiel could grab them, that would also mean him moving, and that’s the picture ruined.

 

Next time, though, for sure.

 

Dean resumes the flashcard marathon, and somehow, this final stretch goes at lightning speed.

 

The last few cards dwindle until the last pair, and that’s where Dean starts fumbling it, both of their breathing turning ragged the second Castiel realizes he’s down to only two. The sound of Castiel, straining and desperate, that fucking sound kills Dean in the best way, in the least convenient way, but fuck, but Cas, but _Cas_ , because Cas starts chanting out the definition alongside Dean, having heard it time and time again, and if that doesn’t burn it into Dean’s memory forever, there’s no hope for him.

 

“That’s all of ‘em,” Dean gasps. “Oh, thank fuck.”

 

Castiel pulls back the scant amount required to grab Dean by his waistband.

 

“ _Wait_ , wait, hold on.”

 

Dropping his head, Castiel groans against the top of Dean’s thigh.

 

“I didn’t grab a condom, and I know you don’t always like swallowing-”

 

“I want to,” Castiel interrupts.

 

“Okay, cool, but-” Why the fuck is he doing this to himself? “-cockwarmer mode, okay?”

 

“What?” Cas asks, his head angled to look up at Dean sightlessly.

 

“Cockwarmer mode,” Dean repeats, because he has another idea. “Final round. You ready?”

 

It takes Castiel a second. Then: “Yes, Dean.” And, so attentively, so delicately, he sightlessly eases Dean’s dick and balls out over his waistband, letting the elastic dig in but also show Dean off the way Cas loves seeing him.

 

“Okay,” Dean says between steadying breaths. “You’ll know when I’m done, and then I want my orgasm. Understand?”

 

“Yes, Dean.”

 

“Okay. Okay.” With the hand not holding his entire pile of flashcards, Dean angles his dick up into Castiel’s mouth by the base, and Castiel takes care of the rest. Literally, the rest of Dean’s dick. “Oh god,” Dean chokes, way too far gone to be attempting this. He heaves out a straining breath through his nose. Then another. And another.

 

“I got this,” Dean whispers to himself. “I got it, we got it. Okay. Okay, here we go.”

 

He takes it from the top. Each card discarded as he’d gotten it right, the flashcards have naturally sorted themselves from easiest to hardest, and Dean breezes through far past the halfway mark. He tosses the cards onto the floor as he goes, has the foresight to make sure there’s no possibility of paper cuts on the couch, and he keeps going.

 

Back into the final stretch now, he stutters and stammers, his hips fighting to jerk forward, his dick demanding to know why they’re not making love to Castiel’s mouth this very minute. He pushes through, and pushes through, and then he’s down to the last two again, those absolute fuckers.

 

His brain stalls. He’d just had them. He’d _just had them_ , c’mon, _pull it together_.

 

Castiel hums around his dick, the rhythm of syllables with absolutely none of the content, but that’s enough, that’s Dean rattling off the rest of the definitions, that’s Dean tossing away both of the cards, that’s Castiel knowing, _knowing_ they’re finished, even before Dean can rip the blindfold off him. Castiel swallows around him, grabs Dean’s ass with both hands and squeezes, moans his absolute approval when Dean lets himself go.

 

The way Castiel rides a dick through a blowjob is never anything short of masterful, but this, tonight, this is a new height, a new depth, a new everything, the familiar inversed as Castiel lets himself be _used_ and fucked. Dean comes in what would be record time, if not for the torturous length of their foreplay. He seizes up amid the long, flowing pulses that Castiel swallows down, that Castiel somehow fails to choke on, and Dean’s mind is fucking _gone_ as he drags Castiel up onto the couch with him.

 

On top of him.

 

Over him.

 

Dean sprawls on his back, this position familiar, with Castiel riding high astride his hips. They fumble Castiel’s fly open—and holy shit, the restraint on this guy, Jesus Christ—and then Dean’s grabbing Cas by the hips, Dean’s running at the mouth, all dirty, filthy nonsense.

 

“Come on me, baby, c’mon, you sexy fuck, lemme see you, show me how hard you can come all over my dick, yeah, you’re gonna do that, aren’t you, babe, you’re gonna jizz all over my dick, mark me up with all your come. Stroke it. Yeah, fuck, look at you. Shit, look at you, so fucking gorgeous, jerking it so fucking hard for me, think you can come on my face from there?”

 

“ _Dean_ ,” Cas croons, one hand flying fast, the other tugging hard at his balls. Blatantly desperate, he abandons the double downstairs action to instead pull Dean up towards a sitting position. “Dean, please, I, Dean.”

 

How Dean gets the picture, he has no idea, but he does, or he thinks he does, or he stumbles into something entirely different but just as good.

 

“Okay, okay, yeah,” Dean agrees, releasing Castiel’s hips, getting his hands ready. “Three, two, one-” He _slams_ both hands down on Castiel’s ass, commanding, “Come _now_.”

 

Shaking, one arm wrapped desperately around Dean’s shoulders, Castiel rocks into him, knocks Dean down onto his back once more, all the while coming on Dean, making an absolute fucking mess of him, his shirts, probably the couch too, but fuck, oh fuck, the sound Castiel makes, the kisses groaned against the side of Dean’s neck, the aftershock twitches of Castiel’s hips, the slide of their dicks in the oversensitive aftershocks that Castiel loves to make him endure.

 

They twitch, and they shake, and then, sighing, they breathe.

 

Somehow without ever fully sitting up, they peel Dean out of his shirts and use them to wipe up themselves as well as the remarkably small amount of spillover on the couch. Dean tucks himself back into his boxer briefs, and Castiel zips up his pants, somehow still fully dressed. Dean pulls Cas back securely on top of himself, needing a human blanket, and Castiel rests his head on Dean’s sternum, humming softly when Dean pets his hair.

 

“Hey, Cas?”

 

“Mm?”

 

“I think I’m ready for my final.”

 

Cas snickers into Dean’s chest, punctuating the laugh with a kiss.

 

“You okay, though?” Dean asks.

 

Cas nods against Dean’s palm, but there’s a returning heaviness behind his eyes.

 

“You wanna make plans?” Dean asks.

 

Brow furrowed, Cas tilts his head. Or maybe he just presses harder against Dean’s palm, either one.

 

“You like having plans,” Dean says, shrugging under him. “Right now, the only one we really got is me fucking your ass after finals.”

 

“You’d like to plan more?” Cas asks, definitely not like someone who’s avoiding the question.

 

“Yeah, like, uh.” Like how often Dean should sleep over each week when they’re not seeing each other at school everyday. Or something else to do with summer. It’s not like Dean thinks they’re taking a break for the months off school, but having their schedules yanked apart has him nervous. “Fourth of July,” Dean settles on instead. “How about your parents come to Bobby’s cookout?”

 

Behind Castiel’s eyes, an entire kaleidoscope of emotion turns and twists, sending patterns every which way too quickly for Dean to track. Cas swallows.

 

“I mean, if it’s too soon, it’s too soon,” Dean hurriedly adds. “I just figure, I’ve met them, you’ve met Bobby, the guys know about you, we always make a shitload of burgers and I know you’re all about that, so, y’know-”

 

“Yes,” Cas says.

 

“Awesome, cool,” Dean says. “Nice.”

 

“Yes,” Cas repeats.

 

Cas settles down a little, folding his arms across Dean’s chest and absolutely pinning him to the couch.

 

“Was that okay?” Dean asks.

 

“I’ve received less awkward invitations, but I do like burgers,” Cas answers, too straight-faced for Dean to tell if he’s joking.

 

“No, smartass.” Dean gestures between them. “My new studying technique. I mean, I know you don’t do student-teacher roleplay or anything.”

 

Cas’ lips twitch. “That wasn’t student-teacher roleplay.”

 

“So…?”

 

Cas leans down, practically crushing Dean. The soft kiss serves as an almost ephemeral piece of contrast. “If you’d like to Dom more, I’d like to see you do it.”

 

Head propped up against the arm of the couch, Dean runs his hands through Cas’ hair, one side and the other, slowly rocking Cas back and forth with the contact. “So I did good.”

 

Eyes closed, head pressed into each touch as it comes, Cas hums confirmation.

 

“C’mere,” Dean says, and guides him down the rest of the way.

 

They lie there like that, Cas snuggled on top of him, Dean ignoring the growing crick in his neck.

 

“You gonna be okay if I talk a little?” Dean asks eventually.

 

A modicum of tension stretches through Cas’ body, though not enough to turn him from liquid to solid. More like a wiggly jello of low level anxiety. “About what?”

 

“The basic rundown,” Dean assures him.

 

Cas shifts, wedging himself between Dean and the back of the couch to better lift one hand. One finger up: “I’m seeing my therapist on Tuesday.” Second finger: “You know I’ve eaten recently, and you know how I’ve been sleeping.” Third: “None of my sources of stress are new or unexpected.”

 

“Is this about your study? And the book?” Dean asks. “You’ve been at it pretty much constantly.”

 

“It’s… bringing certain things to light that I would rather it didn’t.”

 

“Yeah?” Dean asks.

 

“You’re my boyfriend, not my therapist,” Cas reminds him.

 

“Plus, I’m the one reclining on _your_ couch.”

 

Cas rolls his eyes, but that’s basically just another way of applauding a bad joke. He settles back down on top of Dean, evidently still needing the contact. “I’m sorry I’ve been awful. I’ll make it up to you.”

 

“Cas, buddy, you just choked yourself on my dick, I’d say we’re even, but I don’t wanna keep score, okay?”

 

“Sexual favors don’t make yelling all right,” Cas mumbles against Dean’s shoulder and okay. Okay.

 

Cas is probably processing a lot of the bullshit he went through, a year working the phones for a sex line. Combine that with the bear of perfectionism that Cas is constantly wrestling with, and Dean can see the situation pretty damn well.

 

Dean strokes Cas’ back through his shirt. Plucks at the damp spot at the small of Cas’ back.

 

“Bed?” Cas asks.

 

“Kinda early for it, but I’ll stay until you conk out. Was gonna keep studying more.”

 

“Don’t exhaust yourself,” Cas says, sounding like he’s talking from current personal experience.

 

They grab up Dean’s discarded clothing without ever separating completely, and Dean rubs Cas’ back as they move through the hall and doorway. Cas strips down to his boxers as well, and they spoon in the light of the lamp on the new bedside table, the one on Dean’s side. Under Dean’s hand, Cas’ heart keeps trying to speed up. Each time it does, Cas starts back up with the controlled breathing, and Dean joins him.

 

“Tell me why you’re scared, and I’ll tell you why you’re more awesome than that bullshit,” Dean offers against the back of Cas’ neck.

 

“I don’t feel very awesome.”

 

“Dude, you’re like the best thing that ever happened to me,” Dean says.

 

Pity and apology clear on his face, Cas looks over his shoulder at Dean.

 

“Shut it,” Dean tells him. “You are. Like, top three territory.”

 

That puts a flicker of acceptance across Cas’ features. “Sam and Bobby?”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“What about your car?”

 

“...Definitely top five.”

 

With a faint smile, Cas rolls back onto his side. He doesn’t tug Dean’s arm around his middle, but Dean follows anyway.

 

“It’s gonna be awesome,” Dean says. “The book. And you were already planning on doing another paper or even a second book on the reaction to the first paper and book, so. You got a crapload of material even just with people responding to the paper.”

 

“I need to take a break,” Cas reminds him, an edge creeping back into his voice.

 

“Yeah, sorry. Just wanna fix it.”

 

“You can’t fix me, Dean.”

 

Pressed up against Cas’ back, Dean tugs Cas even closer. “You know all that crap you say to me when I go around hating myself?”

 

“It’s not crap.”

 

Dean taps him on the sternum. “Yeah, exactly.”

 

Cas covers Dean’s hand with his own. He squeezes tight.

 

They both squeeze tight.


	2. Examinations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean discovers just how much he's learned this past school year.

Somehow, despite the lamp on behind him, Dean manages to fall asleep first. He wakes up facing the lamp, shielding his eyes as his alarm goes off. Cas grumbles protest against the back of Dean’s neck. Due to a long disentanglement process, Dean has barely enough time to shower off last night’s activities and get to this morning’s final exam. Because eight in the morning is a completely appropriate time to start an exam.

 

After, he stops back at his place for fresh clothes, but nevertheless continues back to Cas’ apartment. It’s surreal as fuck, letting himself back in, walking on up, and finding Cas exactly where he’d left him. Then again, it’s barely after ten, and Cas has likened his panic attacks to running marathons more than once.

 

Closing the bedroom door quietly, he checks Cas’ schedule on the dry erase wall chart in the office. Cas isn’t proctoring anything until three. Awesome. Dean can drop Cas off by the humanities quad on his admittedly circuitous way back to the garage. No one expects him in with finals on, but a little tinkering can’t hurt.

 

For now, Dean takes a quick detour to actually eat before climbing back into bed, again stripped down to his underwear. Cas lies there like a lump, frowning gently in his sleep, eyes flickering beneath their lids, and Dean just looks at him.

 

Really looks.

 

Really thinks.

 

A year ago, he’d been reeling from getting college acceptance letters. Bewildered and unsure and cornered, all the while coming to grips with the fact that straight men don’t stare at other men’s asses the way Dean does.

 

Barely a year ago, he’d finally admitted to himself he might be bisexual.

 

Nearly two semesters ago, he’d tried it on for size.

 

One semester ago, he’d asked Cas out.

 

And today, he fucking blew that test out of the water, all before letting himself back into his boyfriend’s apartment with his own key.

 

 _What the fuck_ , Dean thinks, but not in a bad way.

 

He slides his hand under the sheets, against Cas’ chest. He slips the touch around to Cas’ back, to skin warm with faint sleep sweat, and Cas’ unconscious response is to flop an arm over Dean and tug.

 

“That’s not where the printer paper goes,” Cas grumbles against Dean’s neck.

 

Biting his lip, Dean doesn’t laugh. “Okay, I’ll put it back,” he whispers.

 

“Not you, Dean, you’re fine,” Cas assures him in a very different tone. He nuzzles closer for half a second before rolling over, muttering, “ _Why_ would it go in the bookcase?” He reaches back to pull Dean with him, but Dean’s already complying, already there. He rests his hand over Cas’ heart, or, more accurately, Cas hugs Dean’s arm in place there.

 

Dizzy and grounded all at once, Dean breathes him in. Spoons him close.

 

He must doze off at some point, because Cas is abruptly sitting up, shaking him by the shoulder. “ _Dean._ Dean, your final, you-”

 

“Already went,” Dean answers through a yawn. “S’all good.”

 

Cas sags back down, glaring at Dean like the self-inflicted heart attack was his fault. “How’d it go?”

 

“Fucking nailed it.” The one term Dean’s brain had tried to blank on, his dick had very helpfully reminded him instead. Which, yeah, more than a little awkward, but effective as hell. “You’re the best study buddy a guy could ask for.” He winks and throws his leg over Cas’ beneath the sheets.

 

Cas flushes.

 

“Do you want me to keep studying like that?” Dean asks.

 

Cas’ eyes flick down, looking at a spot between their chests. “Maybe.”

 

Okay, not the response Dean had been hoping for. “So, uh. I don’t really know what sub drop looks like on you, only the Dom side. Are you… okay?”

 

“I shouldn’t have had to lean on you like that,” Cas says. “I’m glad you found a way to keep studying, but I was out of line and-”

 

“And you sound like you’re dropping,” Dean interrupts.

 

Cas says nothing, not seeing Dean despite being mere inches away.

 

“Cas? Can you look at me?”

 

Cas looks at him.

 

“I can’t believe we did that,” Dean admits. “In a good way,” he has to add quickly, feeling the flinch within Cas’ body. “You’ve got some serious fucking restraint, if Domming is always that hard.”

 

“You didn’t like it,” Cas says, frowning.

 

“I don’t mean hard-bad, I mean, hard… hard. Dick hard. Not losing it early, that kind of hard.”

 

“You didn’t want to Dom and I made you,” Cas says. “I wasn’t in a mental state to be asking, no, demanding new kinks, I-”

 

“This isn’t helping,” Dean interrupts. “Cas, look at me? This thing in your head? Not helping. Pause the spiral, okay?”

 

Cas closes his eyes.

 

Takes a deep breath.

 

Takes a few more, his hand in Dean’s, held against Dean’s chest as Dean matches him.

 

“You’re okay,” Dean tells him. “We’re okay.”

 

“You’re okay?” Cas checks.

 

“I mean, I’m a little weirded out, getting a chubby while taking a test, but sense memory is ridiculously effective, turns out.”

 

Cas doesn’t smile back.

 

“Can I take you out to lunch?” Dean asks. “Or do you want to stay in?”

 

“I don’t know,” Cas says.

 

“Start with coffee, decide from there, got it.”

 

Dean starts to slide out of bed, but Cas catches him by the wrist. He doesn’t say anything, only looks at Dean, but that’s enough for Dean to get the picture. Dean gets back in there, bundles Cas up in his arms, and kisses the side of his head.

 

“I’m sorry I’m broken,” Cas whispers, and the bottom of Dean’s stomach drops out.

 

“I don’t care,” Dean says. “I don’t give a single shit that you’re broken. Don’t think anyone does. Hell, I don’t think most people can even tell.”

 

“You know.”

 

“Yeah, only ‘cause I showed you how fucked up I am.”

 

“You’re not fucked up, Dean,” Cas insists. “You’re thriving.”

 

“Thanks to my super hot boyfriend, yeah.”

 

Cas glares at him.

 

Fully aware that there could be Consequences, Dean kisses him on the nose.

 

Cas glowers at him, eyes narrowed. “You’re avoiding the point.”

 

“Anxiety’s giving you a pretty shitty point.”

 

“It’s not…” Cas flops onto his back, drilling holes into the ceiling with his eyes.

 

“What is it?” Dean asks. “The book’s making you feel like you can’t get anything right, is that it?”

 

Cas looks at him with just enough fear for Dean to know he’s getting close.

 

“Fuck the book,” Dean says. “You’re right, you need that break. You _know_ you need that break—that’s a good sign. You know how shitty I am at pacing myself. So we’re taking a break. I’ve got the rest of the day off, anyway, Bobby’s orders.”

 

Cas squints at him, confusion tinting his features in a slightly more positive light. “Weren’t you going to the garage today?”

 

“Yeah, ‘cause I suck at breaks.” Dean nudges him. “Good thing I got you to pace me out. Now c’mon. Shower, coffee, food, meds, and I’ll drop you off at work after. Pick you up, too, if you want.”

 

When Cas’ gaze again leaves Dean’s face, it’s less avoidance, more a collapse of exhaustion. “All right.”

 

“Lemme take care of you?”

 

Eyes closed, Cas nods.

 

Dean kisses him on the forehead and stays there, breathing him in. The protective sentiment in his chest tries to come tumbling out his mouth, so Dean simply presses his lips harder to Cas’ skin.

 

“I don’t deserve you,” Cas says quietly.

 

Dean can’t help his reflexive grin, the absurdity of the words outweighing the concerning nature of Cas’ tone. “Bullshit. C’mon, we gotta get you through the drop. Cuddle, water, food, we know the combo, let’s get it done.”

 

“Okay,” Cas says, his voice still so much smaller than Dean’s used to hearing it.

  
  
  


 

As expected, Cas perks up over lunch. Coffee for awake, meds for stability, food for endurance, contact for reassurance. They sit at a diner counter, because all the other seats would have them opposite each other, unable to press shoulders. They talk about whether Dean should pick him back up, and then when.

 

Dean drops him off, holes up in the library solo for more conventional studying, and swings back around at their agreed upon time. Cas climbs into the car with his usual aura of calm, collected confidence, and he smiles slightly when Dean leans in to say hello.

 

“What?” Dean asks, pulling back without a kiss.

 

Cas shakes his head, puts a hand behind Dean’s neck, and draws him back in for a hello peck. “Thinking of the last time you picked me up after finals,” Cas explains.

 

Dean shudders. “Sorry, what part of that clusterfuck has you grinning, you weirdo?”

 

“The fact that you just kissed me without hesitation in public,” Cas answers, looking at him with unmistakable pride.

 

Pushing away the reflexive embarrassment, Dean rolls his eyes and pulls away from the curb. Baby doesn’t count as public. Hell, Baby downright counts as being at home. “Somebody’s feeling better.”

 

“Yes,” Cas says. “After the exam, I told my students about the paper—and the book, eventually—and the reactions weren’t as bad as I’d expected.”

 

Eyes on the road, Dean reaches over, ostensibly to rub some of the tension out of Cas’ scalp, privately more to pet his hair. “You’re seriously worried how people are gonna react, huh?”

 

“You know that. We’ve talked about it.”

 

“Yeah, but you were calmer before.”

 

Cas leans back against Dean’s hand. “It wasn’t real before.”

 

“Touche.”

 

They drive in comparative silence. Dean removes his hand only when turns require it, and Cas sighs quietly each time the touch returns.

 

“Oh,” Cas says, “I remembered to get this from my office.”

 

“Get what?” Dean asks, not looking.

 

In answer, Cas takes his life into his own hands, popping Dean’s current cassette out of the player—but once he puts a newer cassette in, all is forgiven.

 

Dean drives with a stupid smile, and when he sings along to the mix tape, Cas quietly joins in, knowing most of the words. Pretty quick study, considering Dean gave it to him for Valentine’s Day.

 

“How the fuck did we get so sappy?” Dean asks once he’s parked. “Seriously, what the hell.”

 

“We’re affectionate,” Cas corrects. They climb out of the Impala, close the doors hard, and Cas waits without complaint while Dean manually locks both doors. They head on upstairs and into a normal night, yesterday’s weirdness nevertheless lingering in the air.

 

“I worked while you did,” Dean informs him over dinner, “so we’re both taking the night off. Got it?”

 

“Got it,” Cas says before promptly refusing to let Dean do the dishes.

 

They watch junk TV on the couch, snarking, joking, grinning at each other without looking. It’s a good night, and every time they exchange a glance, there’s an unspoken agreement to keep it that way, to stop themselves from ruining it.

 

That agreement lasts all the way into bed, Cas in his fucking striped pajamas, Dean in his boxer briefs. They lie there in the dark, not speaking, not sleeping, not spooning.

 

“Wanna make out?” Dean asks.

 

Lying on his back, Cas hums neutrally.

 

“Or whatever,” Dean adds.

 

Cas rolls over to face him fully, their foreheads close in the dark, their breaths mingling. Beneath the sheet and light blanket, their knees bump. Cas sighs. “I’m sorry.”

 

“Are we okay?” Dean asks.

 

“Are we?” Cas asks right back, and it’s sincere, not a deflection.

 

“I want us to be.”

 

Cas nods. “Me too.”

 

“So what’s up?”

 

“...Can you roll over?”

 

Dean blinks in the dark but complies. Cas scoots forward to slot himself against Dean’s back, and that, at least, is reassuring.

 

“Things are going to change,” Cas says. Dean waits for him to add more, but he doesn’t.

 

“I’m gonna be at the garage a lot more, yeah,” Dean says.

 

The tension in Cas’ body doesn’t fade, but it certainly shifts. “...What?”

 

“Over the summer,” Dean says. “When we’re not on campus together all the time?” He looks over his shoulder. “What did you mean?”

 

“Partially that,” Cas says in a tone that means he wasn’t thinking about it at all.

 

“...Y’know, uh. Something you pointed out to me a while back.”

 

“Mm?”

 

“If it’s stressing you out this bad, you don’t actually have to do it,” Dean says. “This is about the book, right? Worried people are gonna treat you worse once they know about the sex work?”

 

Cas’ silence serves as confirmation.

 

“Okay, so probably not a conversation to have while trying to go to sleep,” Dean says.

 

“I hate that I’m afraid,” Cas tells the back of Dean’s neck. “I should be able to trust… I hate that I’m afraid.”

 

And he tightens his arm around Dean.

 

Dean grabs Cas’ hand and squeezes hard, effectively pinning Cas’ arm against his chest. “You keep holding on, all right? And if you gotta go slower on the book-”

 

“I can’t,” Cas interrupts. “I need it out of me. When I don’t work on it, it looms, and then I’m only working on it inside my head.”

 

“Slower on publishing?”

 

“Same thing. Plus job pressure.”

 

“Look, I just don’t want it to be publish _and_ perish, okay?”

 

Cas nods against Dean’s shoulder. He holds on, and Dean holds on just as tightly, just as firmly. Their breathing turns slow and even, and yet awareness prickles along Dean’s skin.

 

“I’m sorry,” Cas whispers.

 

“For what?”

 

“Pressuring you last night. Focusing on what I wanted instead of what you were comfortable with.”

 

“But I did good, right?” Dean asks, apprehension curdling his dinner.

 

“You gave me everything I needed, Dean. But that’s not the point. Were you actually comfortable in that role?”

 

It’s a tough thing, thinking about lying while Cas has his body wrapped around him, has a hand pressed over Dean’s accelerating heart. Finally, Dean admits, “Think I was too worried about you to tell. Didn’t mind it once we got going, but, yeah. Worried.”

 

Cas tenses gradually. Inexorably. Less a flinch from impact, and more steel stiffening to the point of brittleness.

 

“I don’t deserve you,” Cas whispers, not a trace of doubt in his voice.

 

Dean rolls over in Cas’ loosening grip. “Fuck ‘deserve’.”

 

“I-”

 

“No, seriously,” Dean says. “I know you believe in Heaven and all that, but I gotta tell you, Cas, it ain’t on Earth as it is in Heaven. What you get doesn’t have shit to do with what you deserve. So maybe you’re not owed a hot boyfriend, but you’re not _not_ owed a hot boyfriend. You can’t, like, _buy_ a life experience with deserving points or some shit. Okay? You get that, right?”

 

“...Mentally, yes.”

 

“Well. That’s still something.”

 

“I don’t want being with me to hurt you,” Cas says, almost over him. “No pain, no humiliation, no mockery. You’ve faced enough.”

 

“Domming wasn’t bad,” Dean hurries to say. “Promise. If your headspace weren’t hanging in the balance so much, it could probably be a lot of fun.”

 

“So you didn’t enjoy it.”

 

“Cas, can you stop assuming shit for three seconds?” Dean asks, more tired than angry.

 

“If what we do isn’t sexually adequate-”

 

“Your mouth on my dick is always awesome. Seeing you _want_ your mouth on my dick is fucking amazing. That part, seriously love it.” Dean lifts a hand to Cas cheek, puts his thumb to Cas’ lip. It’s a little to demonstrate, a lot to shut Cas up long enough for Dean to talk. “I know you got all pissed at your meds for the side effects and shit, but we’re working around that, right?” It had taken a month of Cas periodically claiming to be edging before admitting the full effects that his meds had on his dick, but come clean he had. “That’s gotten way better. And look, I’m not saying I’d put Domming on my personal To-Do list, but sex with you definitely is. So. I can give it a shot another time when shit’s more calm and we’ll figure it out from there.”

 

Cas sighs.

 

“What?” Dean asks. “How is that a bad plan?”

 

Cas shakes his head against Dean’s palm. “I changed my meds.”

 

Dean frowns, peering at Cas’ outline beside him in bed. “Wait, what?”

 

“I was tired of being able to get hard but not being able to finish,” Cas says. “So I changed my medication.”

 

Dean sits himself up. He reaches back and clicks on his light.

 

Cas shields his eyes, nevertheless peering up at Dean beneath one protectively raised hand.

 

“I don’t think the new ones are working,” Dean says.

 

“They’re working fine,” Cas says, also sitting up, glowering at both Dean and the light.

 

“You had a major panic attack last night.”

 

“You know I have those.”

 

“Not like that. Cas, you’re doing worse than you were while working a sex line and getting like no sleep.”

 

Cas doesn’t have an immediate retort for that. “It takes time to adjust to any new medication.”

 

Not exactly equipped to argue blindly with a guy who does his research, Dean holds back his instinct to argue. Mostly. “And you’re sure now is a good time to be switching? ‘Cause if the choice is between you handling shit well and you panicking during sex, I can deal with jerking off more. You’re more-”

 

“I’m not,” Cas snaps. “I didn’t change my medications to get _you_ off. This is for me, Dean. It didn’t matter before, when I was inundated with sex I wasn’t invested in, but it matters _now_.”

 

Dean opens his mouth.

 

Closes it.

 

“Okay,” he says.

 

Cas narrows his eyes, not simply squinting into the light. “Okay?”

 

“Look, I’m a fan of you orgasming too,” Dean points out. “And not just ‘cause it’s hot.”

 

The stiff slant of Cas’ shoulders softens.

 

“Maybe I could, I dunno. Try harder?” Dean offers. “Hit more buttons, get you off that way?”

 

Cas hangs his head with a hard exhale. “Dean, this is happening on a chemical level. The only reason I even told you about the side effects was to keep you from feeling inadequate. This isn’t about you trying or not trying. This isn’t _about you_. At all. I don’t mean that unkindly, but I am literally talking about my biological chemistry, not your sexual prowess.”

 

“But what if I-”

 

“ _Dean_.”

 

Dean closes his mouth. Raises his hands.

 

“I want to go to sleep,” Cas says. “Do you want to go to sleep?”

 

“...Guess I do.”

 

Dean turns off the light.

 

They lie back down, not touching.

 

Dean’s heartbeat drowns out Cas’ breathing.

 

Dean closes his eyes against the dark.

 

Tries to hold steady.

 

To breathe evenly.

 

When he can’t take it any longer, he rolls onto his side. “Should I sleep on the couch?” he whispers.

 

Cas shifts within the shadows. “What?”

 

“I can sleep on the couch,” Dean offers. “Or drive home. Whatever. Whichever.”

 

“...You want to go?”

 

“Would it help?”

 

“...I don’t know,” Cas says, but his voice breaks on the final word.

 

Dean risks it, gathering him up. Cas clings, stiff in all the wrong ways.

 

They press together, fighting for reassurance within the contact.

 

“We’ll figure it out,” Dean promises. “I mean, you will, but. If you want help.”

 

“I want help.”

 

“Good.” Dean breathes a little sigh of massive relief. “‘Cause I seriously wanna help. Don’t know how, but, uh. Yeah. We’ll figure it out.”

 

“I’m sorry I’m like this,” Cas says against his chest.

 

“Yeah, it’s fucking rude, being more attractive than me. First off, shouldn’t even be possible.”

 

Cas shakes his head, but more of the tension hiding beneath his skin dissipates.

 

“Second off,” Dean continues, “really distracting. If you didn’t have a sexy voice to match, your students would be doomed. Nobody paying attention at all.”

 

“Dean,” Cas chides, but not in the way that means _stop it_.

 

“I gotta be responsible and sleep and shit,” Dean says, stroking his fingers through Cas’ hair. “Got that afternoon exam.”

 

Cas hums.

 

“We’re gonna get through this,” Dean adds.

 

“‘This’ isn’t something that goes away, Dean.”

 

“Not _this_ ,” Dean says, giving Cas’ scalp a little squeeze. “The search for meds you can fuck on. Okay?”

 

“Okay,” Cas answers quietly.

 

Eventually, they shift apart a little, gathering the space required to sleep. When Dean wakes, it’s with Cas curled around his back, breathing steady, holding loosely. As if it’s already fully summer, morning sunlight shines in through the closed curtains, fighting its way in with ease.

 

Dean slips away, grabs coffee and his study stuff, and slips back into bed.

  
  
  
  


 

Maybe it’s having Cas to worry about, maybe his teachers are going easy on him, maybe it’s a lot of things, but Dean’s finals go fine. Freakishly smoothly, really. Bobby takes him out to lunch after the last test, and an idle conversation about going to see an antique car show rapidly turns the meal into a business lunch.

 

“We should get our name in there, why haven’t we done that?” Dean asks. “It’s a pile of rich show-offs with old cars, that’s a gold mine.”

 

“We’ve never specialized before,” Bobby points out. “Makes it harder for them to trust we know what we’re doing.”

 

Dean googles around on his phone, writing down shows across the state on his napkin, until Bobby clears his throat.

 

“We’re _celebrating_ , not working,” Bobby gripes. “You can give it a rest for an hour.”

 

“Fine,” Dean sighs, inwardly bouncing with excitement. Because, holy shit, this could be an awesome summer.

 

He needs to get Baby in a car show.

  
  
  
  


 

He calls Sam a couple hours later, around when it should be Sam’s lunch break even with the time difference. They don’t talk long, but they do actually talk.

 

That night, Dean successfully drags Cas out to the usual bar, Benny there with Andrea, Garth going solo. Mirroring Benny with Andrea, Dean sits with an arm around Cas’ shoulders, and he pretends he’s not trembling inside from it. In one hand, Cas holds his beer, and under the other palm, he holds Dean’s thigh, a solid piece of pressure to ground him.

 

As Cas’ designated driver, Dean only puts away a pair of beers, all told. They head back to Dean’s place over the garage, a decision made based on proximity and exhaustion. Dean and Cas drag themselves upstairs. They collapse onto Dean’s bed, still neatly made from last week, but not for long.

 

In the morning, Cas borrows one of Dean’s few ties, claiming this counts as a change of outfit.

 

“Not a full change,” Dean tells him pointedly, and this is how he gets Cas in a pair of his own boxer briefs. No one else is going to know, not under that suit, but Dean gets a rise out of it, and Cas keeps shifting as Dean nukes them frozen waffles in the microwave.

 

“Do you want to come over tonight?” Cas asks, addressing his sticky plate as he cuts syrup-soaked Eggos. “Obviously you can take a break. Between me, work, and finals, I know you haven’t had any time to yourself for a while.”

 

“I was mostly just gonna catch up on TV and act as brain dead as I feel.” Dean shrugs. “What about you?”

 

“Proctoring two more exams today, then study help in the library.”

 

Dean chews, nodding along. “Got it. You wanna be brain dead together after that, or comatose apart?”

 

“I did ask you first,” Cas points out.

 

“Uh...” Dean runs through a mental chore list. “Yeah, I should probably stay put and do life shit. Laundry, clean, that crap.”

 

Cas nods back and pulls out his phone. A few seconds later, he frowns, tilting his head to the side. “The next bus leaves in two minutes. I won’t make that. And then if I…” Cas puts his Math Face on, which is a combination of memorization, concentration, and pain.

 

“What’s the travel plan?”

 

“I need to go home for my medication.”

 

“We still got your pill caddie in the bathroom,” Dean reminds him. “It was right next to your toothbrush, dude.”

 

“Wrong meds,” Cas says, still thumbing through his phone. “But if I get on the next bus, then make the connection-”

 

“I’ll drive you,” Dean interrupts.

 

“You don’t have to.”

 

“Gotta go grocery shopping.”

 

It’s a flimsy excuse, however true, but Cas accepts it. “Thank you.”

 

“Yeah, sure. So, we swapping out your pill caddie now or waiting for the winning combo?”

 

“Mm, I should take it back, at least.”

 

“Okay,” Dean says, and digs back into his waffles.

 

For a minute, Dean assumes Cas is still scrolling through his phone, but when he pays attention…

 

“Are you taking pics of me eating?” Dean asks, purposefully talking with his mouth full and wide open.

 

Cas rolls his eyes and puts his phone down. “Not anymore.”

 

Dean crams the remainder of his breakfast into his mouth and grins with chipmunk cheeks.

  
  
  
  


 

Besides periodic texts, Dean essentially goes hermit for the next two days. The summer opens up in front of him the way it hasn’t since he was a teenager, remarkably full of freedom for a season still full of his usually daily grind.

 

And it does go back to being daily. It’s fucking weird and completely normal, all at the same time. This is his old routine. This is his regular life. There are a couple changes, like the way his heart keeps trying to panic whenever his brain forgets that he’s _not_ late to class, but basically, yeah.

 

Normal.

 

He holds onto the good change, though. _Mind company tonight?_ he texts during his lunch break.

 

Cas texts back a single heart.

 

It’s a good new normal.

  
  
  
  


 

Dean lets himself in, bringing a hodgepodge of perishables and vague intentions of dinner. “Hey, babe!” he calls, shutting the door behind himself and yanking off his boots.

 

“Office!” Cas calls back.

 

Dean considers his options. The typical, and the ridiculous.

 

He drops off the food in the fridge, and then he drops a couple other things too. Moving quietly, he opens the office door. Looks at Cas without stepping inside, looks at tense shoulders and wild hair, at binders and books and his laptop and no fewer than three separate mugs on his desk.

 

Without entering, Dean makes himself comfortable.

 

It takes a minute for Cas to notice.

 

“Dean?” Cas turns in his swivel chair, his eyes initially searching above Dean’s head. And then they widen.

 

Kneeling in his flouncy panties and nothing else, Dean responds with a shaky smile.

 

Mouth agape, Cas looks back and forth between his laptop and Dean. “Um.” Cas licks his lips, looks again. Puts his hands back on the keyboard. “Let me… save this…”

 

“I can wait,” Dean says. “Set us a goal?”

 

Cas hesitates. “You look cold.”

 

“That’s just my nipples doing their thing.”

 

Cas inspects that claim from across the room, and the fit of Dean’s panties begins to suffer for it.

 

“...I’m setting a timer,” Cas decides. “Don’t move.”

 

Dean’s smile solidifies. “How long?”

 

Castiel levels a _look_ at him. “Don’t move,” he repeats, and promptly turns his back, resuming whatever task he’d had at hand.

 

Initially, there’s an urge to count. To make guesses at minutes. Then comes the regret he didn’t kneel closer. Finally, as his breathing becomes an exercise of control, he sinks into it. As Dean’s body stiffens, his mind relaxes.

 

His palms atop his thighs.

 

The air against his skin.

 

His ass on his heels, the fabric of his panties against his ankles.

 

And in front of him, there’s Castiel. Sometimes scrolling, sometimes typing. Flipping through one of his books for a little while before painstakingly coping something, muttering something about footnotes.

 

Dean waits, at once sitting up and nodding off. Boredom exists as another ache, a mental match to that of his muscles; the strain grounds him. Means he’s actually doing something. Mean’s he’s earning a reward, instead of being indulged.

 

When Castiel stands, he initially keeps his back to Dean. He straightens his clothing, a long sleeved t-shirt and an old pair of jeans.

 

He turns around.

 

He looks at Dean.

 

He walks forward on bare feet, stops within reach, and takes Dean by the hair.

 

As Dean bares his throat, his front, nearly all of himself, Dean’s eyes droop shut.

 

“I missed you too,” Castiel murmurs, and Dean’s dick jumps inside his panties. “I don’t have anything planned for tonight. If you want to play past this, it won’t be anything complex.”

 

“Whatever you want,” Dean answers. He even means it, however much his dick protests. What Castiel wants and what Dean’s dick wants, these are definitely a Venn diagram, not a circle.

 

“ _Whatever_ I want?” Castiel repeats, tugging on Dean’s hair.

 

Dean’s skin prickles in gooseflesh. His nipples tighten with an actual twinge.

 

“Yes, Castiel,” Dean says, mouth dry.

 

Castiel reaches into the front pocket of his jeans, but not to adjust himself. Instead, Castiel pulls out his phone. He thumbs across the screen before finally angling the phone at Dean. “I want pictures.”

 

Something in Dean vibrates inside. “Of…?” Of Dean on his knees in panties, at the very least. Turned on in nothing but frilly underwear.

 

“If you don’t like them, you can delete them,” Castiel tells him. “But I get to take them first.”

 

“I could delete all of them?” Dean checks.

 

“All of them. You can look through while I make dinner.” Still pointing his phone camera at Dean, Castiel raises his eyebrows.

 

It takes Dean a second, but he nods.

 

“Good boy. Chin up, eyes closed.”

 

Heart pounding, Dean complies.

 

All of the functions on Cas’ phone are silenced, no sound effects for any buttons, no camera clicks at all. There’s no telling how many pictures Castiel takes there and then, inspecting Dean from various angles in the office doorway.

 

“Play with the panties,” Castiel instructs, voice low and rough. “Show me why you like them.”

 

His breathing shallow, Dean strokes his fingers through the ruffles up the sides of his panties. The camera has his dick wanting to hide, but the panties keep inviting it out to play. A hot flush in his head, Dean squeezes his eyes tighter.

 

Castiel’s touch comes as a surprise, a gentle pass across his hair. “You’re all right. You’re being good for me. Very, very good, Dean.”

 

Pressing into the contact, Dean nods silently.

 

“My good boy is allowed to talk.”

 

Dean doesn’t say anything.

 

“...Dean, I need verbal confirmation you’re all right.”

 

“You’re not gonna show anyone these, right?” Dean asks, a question all the stupider for the lack of trust it conveys.

 

“No,” Castiel says, serious, not offended. “I don’t want to share you at all. Not this part of you.”

 

“The naked part?” Dean risks opening his eyes, straining for levity, for a joke, and Castiel shakes his serious head.

 

“Vulnerable.” Stepping closer, standing nearly against Dean, Castiel tightens his fingers in Dean’s hair. “I’ve thought a lot about what kind of things I’d be comfortable doing in reality, not just on the phone. And I think… It’s a strange balance. I think I’d be all right with us bringing home a third and having you fuck him, but you on your knees, in your panties… I need that to be mine, Dean.”

 

Without moving at all, Dean sinks. Not drops. Sinks. His mind descending inside his body, only tethered to his head by the grip of Castiel’s hand. There are depths inside of him, so far down, down to stillness, down to bedrock beneath the ocean, and this is where Castiel takes him without ever letting him be crushed by the pressure of descent.

 

“That’s yours,” Dean hears himself say from somewhere far away, somewhere warm and soft. “I’m yours.”

 

“My good boy,” Castiel confirms. “Everyone else’s good man, but my good boy.”

 

“Your good boy,” Dean repeats, his dick harder than the floor beneath his knees.

 

Nodding, Castiel releases Dean slowly. “Turn over. Hands and knees into the hall.”

 

Dean complies, gratefully going from hardwood to carpet. He looks over his shoulder, and Castiel is looking at him through his phone screen.

 

“Crawl to my bedroom.”

 

Dean’s stomach drops at the singular possessive more than it does at the prospect of crawling, and crawling always feels dumb. Dean does it anyway, picturing how Castiel must be staring at his ass, reminding himself that he can delete everything.

 

Castiel opens the bedroom door for him, and Dean carefully transitions back onto hardwood, then onto the rug. He kneels. Turns to face Castiel when Castiel sits down on the bed. Dean sits up tall on his heels, expecting a blowjob photo shoot, but Castiel merely frames Dean with his own legs before taking pictures of him directly.

 

“Stay there,” Castiel instructs before putting his phone down. He gets up and remakes the bed, smoothing out already reasonably smooth sheets. He turns on the bedside lamps and double-checks on the blinds being shut. After a moment of pause, he pulls the curtains shut too, even with Dean sheltered from the windows in his position behind the bed.

 

Which means, it’s not much of a surprise when Castiel orders, “Get on the bed. Lie down, hands behind your head.”

 

Dean complies. It feels silly.

 

“Grip your wrist. Hands over your head.”

 

It feels less silly.

 

Head cocked to the side, Castiel considers him, phone lowered. “Hold on.” He goes to his closet and returns with a belt. He starts with a slip knot before looping the rest around Dean’s forearms. It’s more mess than bindings, and yet.

 

And yet.

 

“There,” Castiel says. He puts one hand on Dean’s chest. He looks at Dean fondly, unmistakably so. “Better?”

 

Dean nods.

 

“Verbal confirmation, Dean.”

 

“Yes, Castiel.”

 

“Good boy. I don’t need you fully erect yet, but I will before I’m done. Can you give me that?”

 

A giggle escapes him, half nervous, mostly incredulous. “Uh, yeah. Yeah, I can do that.”

 

Without a change of expression, Castiel tweaks one of Dean’s nipples, hard.

 

“ _Yes_ ,” Dean nearly shouts. “Castiel. Yes. Yes, Castiel, I can give you that.”

 

Castiel leans down and kisses the sharp ache better. “Good, sweet boy.”

 

Phone back in hand, Castiel continues his impromptu photo shoot. He tells Dean how to position his legs. Together. Spread. One propped up. Hanging over the side of the bed.

 

From there, Castiel slides the panties off him. “Sit up, edge of the bed.”

 

Dean flounders a little. “Um. Belt?”

 

“Keep it only if you want it.”

 

It’s nice, but sitting up is a problem. Dean pulls his arms out easily and perches where Castiel points.

 

“Spread your legs,” Castiel orders, phone in one hand, the panties in the other.

 

A flush across his chest and a flirty grin across his face, Dean obeys with aplomb, the task easier naked than it had been with the panties. He knows exactly how much Castiel loves seeing his dick hard.

 

“Just like that. Very good, Dean. Now, don’t move.”

 

Slowly, intent, Castiel sinks to his knees.

 

Dean licks his lips, expecting a blowjob, but it’s not a mouth he gets on his dick, no.

 

Castiel hangs the panties on Dean’s erection. There, kneeling between Dean’s legs, he looks up at Dean with absolute authority and commands, “Don’t drop them.”

 

“Won’t,” Dean promises, too breathless to say more.

 

Castiel photographs him so long, it has to be a method of teasing. From this angle and that. With Dean’s hands holding his thighs apart, with Dean’s hands entirely out of the shot. Pictures from above, shots from below.

 

Castiel takes pictures while tugging at the panties, making Dean’s dick bounce and bob. Castiel pulls the panties in every direction, guiding Dean’s erection around in an obscene circle.

 

Castiel wraps the panties around Dean, tying him up almost completely while Dean’s balls tighten and his slit leaks.

 

“Let’s see,” Castiel says to himself, tagging his eyes away from Dean’s dick to thumb through his phone. “What haven’t I… Mm.”

 

The panties get reset yet again, Dean resuming his role as an erotic clothes hanger, his thighs shaking from being spread for so long. Castiel kisses him on the inside of each thigh before working his mouth, before taking Dean in his mouth for just one hot, extra wet moment.

 

Castiel pulls off, leaving ample spit to trail down Dean’s twitching cock.

 

“Gorgeous,” Castiel rumbles, photographing that. He does it a few more times, refreshing the spit-shine and driving Dean insane.

 

“Thought you said you had nothing planned,” Dean groans, hands fighting to stay put on his legs, back aching from sitting at attention in so many ways for so long.

 

“You inspire me,” Castiel answers with no trace of irony, no single shred of self-consciousness. “Mm, I think that’s enough. Just one more.”

 

Dean’s moan of relief turns into one of desperation as Castiel adds those last three words.

 

“You’ll like this,” Castiel promises. Already kneeling, he sinks down deeper. “Put your leg over my shoulder.”

 

Shaking a little too hard to do it solo, Dean accepts Castiel’s help, takes the contact and the manhandling. It’s such a fucking relief, being able to hold on, that he nearly doesn’t notice Castiel flipping the camera mode to selfie.

 

Eyes on the phone screen, shoulder under Dean’s opposite knee, Castiel carefully moves his face closer and closer to Dean’s waiting dick. Then he presses his thumb down, presses his mouth down, and oh, oh shit.

 

Dean helps him, fucking folds himself in half to make sure Castiel’s getting the angle right, because yeah, fuck yeah, they’re keeping this. Not a photo, no, that’s a red light, this is a _recording_ , this is his dick in Castiel’s mouth in a goddamn selfie video.

 

Once Dean gets the phone in the right position, set against the knee not over Castiel’s shoulder, Castiel hums warm, mind-numbing gratitude around Dean’s length, and then Castiel starts using his hands. One around Dean, the arm under Dean’s leg, the hand against his ass. The other rubbing fabric against Dean’s shaft and balls, pulling the waistband tight like a toying, temporary cockring.

 

Sitting up becomes a challenge. Keeping the camera aimed becomes nearly impossible.

 

Castiel’s good boy to the last, Dean does it anyway.

 

One hand on the phone, the other set against the bed behind him to keep himself from collapsing, Dean fights for air. “Cas, gonna, I’m-”

 

Castiel takes him deep, sucks him hard, and swallows him fast.

 

Dean’s hand convulses on the phone as he fights, fights, fights not to miss this, needs to capture this, keep this. He comes hard and long, the struggle stretching it, or stretching his awareness of it.

 

Finally, unable to do more, take anymore, Dean collapses backward, panties still hanging around his dick, wet with come and Castiel’s spit.

 

Castiel pulls the phone from Dean’s limp hand. He knee-walks onto the bed after Dean, wiping his mouth with his sleeve, and he looks down at Dean with such pride that there’s nothing _after_ about the afterglow.

 

“You did so well,” Castiel tells him, leaning down to stroke Dean’s cheek.

 

“Your good boy,” Dean confirms.

 

“ _My_ good boy.” Castiel runs his hand all the way down Dean’s chest, down to cup the shaft of his softening dick, to rub the panties against him again.

 

Dean keens, toes curling, but he doesn’t twist away.

 

“I want to feed you by hand tonight,” Castiel says. “I know you think it’s over-the-top.”

 

“Better things to do with my mouth, s’all,” Dean mumbles, head thrown back as Castiel keeps playing with him. “Jesus, you’d think it was your dick, way you use it.”

 

“It’s my second-favorite dick,” Castiel tells him very, very seriously.

 

Dean chokes on a laugh. He takes it as long as he can, until he finally has to swat Castiel away. Castiel drags Dean the rest of the way up onto the bed, then, the better to throw a sheet over Dean, the better to curl up behind him and make sure he doesn’t drop.

 

They go through the photos like that, Cas looking over Dean’s shoulder and humming agreement every time Dean deletes a blurry one. The full-body shots, Dean flicks past quickly, telling Cas he might delete those later, but the dick-centric pics aren’t bad.

 

Hell, if Dean didn’t know the dick was his own, they’d even be hot. Mostly, they’re on the artistic side of awkward, but they also turn Castiel’s breathing shallow. Almost absently, Castiel starts to orally molest Dean’s ear, just from scrolling through those pictures… and maybe from rocking his crotch against Dean’s ass.

 

“You wanna watch the video?” Dean asks.

 

“Mm,” Castiel hums, slowly grinding against him.

 

They watch the video.

 

“You wanna fuck me?” Dean asks, and there go Cas’ pants.

 

They prop the phone up against the pillows, the video looping, and Cas pushes into Dean from behind. They do it doggy, the better to both watch—“Holy shit, _how haven’t we watched porn like this_?”—and though Dean doesn’t come again, it’s still a hell of a ride.

 

After, lying curled up together, the phone finally discarded to a bedside table, they sigh at the sex towel and their own empty stomachs.

 

“I don’t want to cook anymore,” Cas groans.

 

“Too bad, someone was gonna feed me by hand.”

 

“You don’t even like that.”

 

“You can’t go breaking promises, Cas, you know how insecure I am.”

 

Cas tweaks his nipple like he thinks it’s an off-switch for bratty behavior.

 

Dean laughs breathlessly— _not_ giggling—and Cas rolls on top of him, resuming their earlier position. “Wait until morning, and I’ll hand feed you my cock,” Cas threatens.

 

Dean wriggles his ass right where Cas is still oversensitive.

 

Cas hisses, squirms a hand under Dean, and ineffectually pinches the other nipple.

  
  
  


 

 

It takes them a long time, but eventually, they give in and order a pizza.

  
  
  
  


 

“Hey, so,” Dean says, one night two weeks into summer break, “you remember this?”

 

“I’m thinking,” Cas answers, squinting at the TV. “I’m not very good at European history.”

 

Dean baps him on the head with their library notebook. “Not _Jeopardy!_ , dumbass.”

 

Blinking, Cas takes the small notebook, already open to the page Dean means. Cas’ eyes flick down their writing. Castiel’s own writing.

 

_If you study like that without complaining for the rest of the semester, you can have my ass after your finals._

 

“Oh. Right.”

 

“I didn’t complain,” Dean points out.

 

“That’s true.” Cas passes the notebook back, and Dean returns it to his overnight bag, dumped next to the couch.

 

“When do you wanna do it?” Dean asks, exactly the way he’s held off asking for two entire weeks. Cas seems to be evening out on his new meds now. At least, they haven’t had any other obvious panic nights. “And, like, maybe if you wanted me to try Domming again, it would be a good combo.”

 

“Domming and topping aren’t necessarily linked.”

 

Dean shrugs. “I like it when you do both at once.”

 

Cas twitches a tiny smile. “True.”

 

Dean elbows him. “Shut up and tell me how you want my dick in your ass.”

 

Cas takes a moment to think about it, or maybe just to confirm that he’d been wrong about the _Jeopardy!_ question. “Vanilla, on Friday night,” Cas decides.

 

“Like a date?” Dean asks, finding himself with an abrupt grin.

 

Cas gets out one of his little frowns, the small one that means he’s not sure whether to be amused. “Maybe?”

 

“We never really dated,” Dean explains. “We just kinda, y’know. Relationship’ed.”

 

“Oh,” Cas says, tilting his head. “You’re right.”

 

“So Friday I wine and dine you into bed.”

 

Though Cas rolls his eyes, there’s a clear indulgence to the motion. “Only if you want to.”

 

“Pretty sure I do.”

 

“Good,” Cas says, and he pulls Dean’s arm over his shoulders before settling in for the rest of the show.

  
  
  
  
  


 

Friday after work, Dean showers. He dresses nice, actual pants instead of jeans. A newer belt. He shaves and checks his hair before driving over to pick up Cas.

 

“Where are we going?” Cas asks, climbing into the Impala. His tie hugs his neck instead of hanging loose, and the slant of his hair suggests recent combing.

 

“Lemme take you to Paradise?” Dean asks right back, grinning.

 

“How long have you been waiting to use that line?”

 

“Ever since I heard of the place,” Dean admits.

 

Dean drives them over, parks on the street, and walks into the bar while holding Cas’ hand. It’s a hell of a difference from his last time here, nervous out of his mind and hoping to pick up someone, anyone.

 

This time, Cas draws him to a high table for two off on the side. They bump knees, touch feet. Cas keeps touching his hand. “Look around,” Cas says quietly.

 

Dean does. It’s still a bar, still crowded on a Friday night, still has club music coming from the back. But mostly, it’s packed with men, all socializing the way Dean’s always been taught men don’t socialize. Something tight inside him starts to unwind, or at least tries to, like a toddler fighting to untie his shoe laces, and it’s a piece of tension Dean hadn’t even noticed having.

 

He rubs his thumb over Cas’ knuckles. “Thanks, babe,” he says, right in public. Not with Benny and Garth at hand for support, not silent in the library with Cas’ respectful students. In public, even if that is a very gay public. For all Cas applauds Dean’s occasional confidence, being publicly affectionate in the Impala doesn’t count.

 

“I didn’t think you wanted to date,” Cas says.

 

“What d’you mean? We went from zero to relationship, we didn’t need to date.”

 

Cas shakes his head. With the hand not in Dean’s atop the table, Cas gestures around. “Date. Go out in public, romantically. I know you’re still adjusting.”

 

“We’re busy people,” Dean says. “I mean, if you want to go out more, we can, I just figured… I dunno. You always struck me as a homebody.”

 

“There is that,” Cas agrees wryly.

 

“I’m not trying to hide you at home or anything,” Dean promises.

 

“The introduction to Sam would have ruined that, yes.”

 

Dean kicks him lightly beneath the table. “You want me to buy you dinner or not?”

 

Cas pretends to make up his mind, so naturally Dean kicks him again, or tries to. Cas catches Dean’s foot between his legs this time, pinching Dean at the ankles, and Cas smiles serenely, even more of an asshole than Dean is.

 

He’s maybe kinda perfect.

 

Over a flight of beer and the matching sliders sampler, they wile the night away. Dean’s ready to leave after a couple of hours, but Cas catches Dean’s hand and shakes his head.

 

“Just once,” Cas tells him, pulling Dean all the way to the back, through the double doors that evidently served as blast doors against a different kind of radio-activity. It’s some pop song Dean will never admit knowing the lyrics to, but the dance floor is a throng of men, even some older than Dean, though mostly younger.

 

“Don’t really like dancing,” Dean warns, even as Cas wraps his arms around Dean’s neck and leans up, mouth by Dean’s ear.

 

Loud speech serves as a whisper, more or less, as Cas simply answers, “Exhibitionism.”

 

Dean’s eyebrows rise, his hands moving to Cas’ ass.

 

They don’t brave the bump and grind long, but Dean hates it way less than expected. Moving crotch-to-crotch, both of them more than half-hard and yet, somehow, completely unremarkable.

 

With more terror than arousal behind his teeth, Dean closes in for a kiss, and even outside of the safety of their homes or his car, nothing happens. No yelling, no shouting, no jeers. Just Cas kissing him back before looking up at him with pride.

 

Dean leans down to shout “Thanks!” into Cas’ ear, as vague as that is, but Cas simply nods in understanding.

 

When the song changes to something truly obnoxious, Cas easily lets himself be pulled off the dance floor. Their old table for two is long gone, a small herd gathered around it, and Dean catches Cas glancing that way as they head toward the door.

 

“Stay a little longer?” Dean asks.

 

Cas hesitates.

 

“Your pick,” Dean promises.

 

They grab one more drink at the bar. Looking up at Dean pointedly, Cas slides his free hand into Dean’s back pocket. Dean raises his eyebrows but nevertheless wraps his arm around Cas once he looks around and sees other men on the prowl.

 

“Staking your claim?” Dean teases.

 

“I don’t enjoy interruptions.” Then Cas leans in close and gives Dean a squeeze. Very seriously, he adds, “But I do enjoy your ass.”

 

Dean noses against Cas’ ear to murmur, “Buddy, my ass enjoys you too.”

 

Cas chokes on his beer.

 

Dean pats his back, but when Cas glares at him, Dean only grins back, unrepentant.

 

Maybe due to the coughing spell, Cas’ last beer takes half of forever to finish, long enough that Dean’s nearly tempted into order another one of his own. But no, Cas is nearly finished, and Dean has some driving to do.

 

After the volume of the club, the Impala’s engine barely registers as more than a purr. Dean turns the mix tape back on. Cas rides shotgun with an arm over Dean’s shoulders. At each stoplight, Dean glances over to see the red glow against Cas’ face, to see Cas already looking back.

 

They don’t talk even as they exit the car, parked in Cas’ otherwise permanently empty spot. Cas reaches over first, Dean complies, and Castiel takes the lead, drawing Dean after him by hand. They head up the stairs like that, meeting no one at this hour, and let go only for Cas to unlock the door.

 

Inside, Dean kisses him. Somehow, that catches Cas off-guard, as if he’d expected to be able to take his shoes off first. They end up against the kitchenette counter instead, Dean pressing Cas into position, their mouths open to each other.

 

Cas pulls him in. Slows him down.

 

Wraps his arms around Dean’s neck, drawing it out.

 

They stay there, kissing, pressing, until Dean gets a kink in his neck. He pulls back half an inch in order to switch sides, and before he can return to business, Cas tells him, “That was a good change of pace.”

 

“Yea- huh?” Dean blinks at him from a little too close. “Going on an actual date?”

 

“Mm. It’s not my typical scene, but…” Cas shrugs.

 

“Yeah, no, I got you,” Dean agrees. “Next time we do something different, we could, I dunno. Like rock climbing or something.”

 

“I think I’d like that.” Leaning to the side, Cas eases out of Dean’s arms to better remove his shoes.

 

Dean follows suit before pulling Cas back in. He slides his hands into Cas’ back pockets, dipping down between wallet and ass. “Speaking of which, how about that other change of pace we were talking about?”

 

“You want to jump right to it?” Cas asks in reply, a disappointed edge to his voice.

 

“I mean, you said vanilla, so I kinda figured the usual games were out.”

 

“Right,” Cas says after a slight pause.

 

“Unless you wanted me to Dom again?” Dean makes himself offer.

 

Cas shakes his head and graces Dean with a tiny, reassuring curve of the lips. “Vanilla is fine.”

 

“But if you wanted-”

 

“Dean.”

 

“Fine, okay.”

 

For all of Cas’ claims of vanilla for the night, Cas pulls Dean to the bedroom like he’s something Cas owns. A hand tight around Dean’s, a strong arm as a leash, strong shoulders as an anchor. It restores everything their stilted conversation had tamped down.

 

Out of long habit, Dean grabs the lube and condoms while Cas gets the sex towel. They strip down before coming back together, though Dean leaves his boxer briefs on for Cas’ benefit. It’s the tight gray pair, the ones that show when Dean’s leaking out the slit.

 

Cas gives him an appreciative look for it before taking up Dean’s usual spot on the bed. He gestures Dean to him, against him, drawing him in for long, deep kisses and wandering hands. Propped up on his elbows, Dean can’t return most of the fondling, but Cas doesn’t seem to mind. He doesn’t chub up that much either, but that’s the meds’ fault, not Dean’s.

 

Eventually, Dean tips over onto his side, the better to actually touch him. Once he gets Cas in hand, Cas sighs, eyes falling shut as color rises in his cheeks and chest.

 

“How do you want this?” Dean asks, rubbing his thumb against the tease spot under the head. These tiny circles of touch draw Cas out without chafing, and as Cas begins to squirm, Dean gives him even more to squirm about.

 

“Whatever you want,” Cas answers, looking and sounding half-asleep, more drugged by arousal than his dick would suggest.

 

“M’kay.” Dean kisses his way down a quick trail. He pops Cas into his mouth, still able to take most of him at this point. As blowjobs go, it’s pretty basic, mostly a stalling tactic while he warms up the lube. Still, Cas ain’t complaining, one hand loosely threaded through Dean’s hair.

 

Deciding it’s time, Dean starts slow, but the lube must have still been colder than he’d thought. Cas’ thighs jerk, his hand twitching tighter.

 

“Sorry,” Cas murmurs, propped up against the headboard.

 

Dean pulls off. “Still a good tug.”

 

Nodding, Cas returns his hand to its proper spot.

 

Dean goes back down on him, circling Cas’ hole in a way he’s often done dry. Though Cas likes a firm press up behind the balls instead, it’s not exactly the first time Dean’s knocked on the back door either. This is just way more slippery.

 

But despite Dean going slow, despite Dean warming the lube and trimming his fingernails well in advance, Cas fails to loosen up. His hole twitches around the tip of Dean’s finger, and his dick in Dean’s mouth never truly makes it past half mast. It’s not a bad texture, but it’s definitely meant to be a transitional stage.

 

Lifting his head, Dean wipes his hand on the sex towel. “You okay?” Dean asks, his other hand secure on Cas’ thigh.

 

“Keep going,” Cas says, and Dean nearly does.

 

“But are you okay?” he asks instead.

 

“Fine,” Cas says. “Keep going.”

 

Dean goes back down and lubes back up. He gets a fingertip inside and starts on a nice little stretch, but he’s gotta be doing it wrong or something. He knows Cas aroused, and he knows Cas fighting against his meds for arousal.

 

This is neither.

 

When Dean raises his head, Cas’ dick flops out of his mouth. “How should I be doing this?”

 

“Hook your finger more,” Cas instructs. “It’s more of a pull than a push.”

 

“No, I know that,” Dean says, and Cas should know Dean knows that. Dean’s only fingered himself open in front of Cas how many times? A lot of times. “How do you like it, though?”

 

“You’re doing fine.”

 

Starting to frown on the outside as well as the inside, Dean tries something and digs his knuckle up beneath Cas’ balls. A tremor of arousal passes over Cas’ face, a flutter of the eyes and a slackness of the mouth. And then Dean slides his hand lower, hooks his finger in, and massages what should be around the same area.

 

Cas doesn’t quite look at him, blank and more than a little awkward.

 

Dean pulls his hand out. “This isn’t doing it for you.”

 

“Dean, it’s fine, you-”

 

“This isn’t doing it for you,” Dean repeats. His dick screams mutiny, but Cas has Dean well trained. Dean has himself well trained. “Let’s do something else.”

 

Shaking his head, Cas argues, “I promised I’d bottom.”

 

“Yeah, well, doesn’t look like your rosebud wants to unfurl tonight.” Dean forces himself to shrug. “Another night is fine.”

 

“I told you tonight,” Cas insists, going tense in a way Dean recognizes too well. “I told you I’d do this. I really don’t mind, you can-”

 

“You _don’t mind_?” Dean echoes, staring, then glaring. “What the fuck, Cas? You _don’t_ _mind_ having sex with me?”

 

Cas holds up his hands, a pair of placating palms. “You know that’s not what I meant. It’s… You didn’t want to Dom and you still did for me, I can do this for you.”

 

“...Okay, I’m pretty sure you just told me you don’t want it up the ass right there.”

 

Cas sighs like Dean’s the one being a self-destructive idiot. “You’re used to being the penetrative partner,” Cas explains, as if Dean might have possibly forgotten a lifetime of pussy. “I can still give you that.”

 

Dean sits back on his heels between Cas’ knees, the distance between them impossibly farther. “Cas. Buddy. I’m used to a lot of stuff. Like, you know. Lying about being straight, or hating myself, or, I dunno, all of it.”

 

“That’s not the same.” Sitting up properly, Cas makes an involuntary face as he moves his legs, probably at the sensation of lube. His dick is basically soft at this point.

 

“Do you want me to fuck you?” Dean asks point-blank.

 

“Yes,” Cas says, their eye contact solid, the word honest and yet incomplete.

 

“But do you want to be fucked?” Dean asks.

 

Mouth open to reply, Cas pauses.

 

Finally, quietly, Cas says, “I want you to fuck me.”

 

Dean chews his lip, taking Cas in. The tension in him. The past weeks. The medication switch and the pressures and the book.

 

It’s not the time to talk about any of that, but it’s not the time to take Cas up the ass either.

 

“Okay,” Dean says anyway. Walking on his knees, he steps over Cas’ legs to straddle his lap. He adjusts his boxer briefs, drawing himself out, immediately pulling Cas’ eyes to his half-hard length. “Up against the headboard. Let’s do this, get me hard.”

 

Clearly suspicious, Cas complies anyway. He sucks Dean with a solid baseline of skill, but his heart isn’t in it.

 

Dean takes Cas by the hair, gently but firmly, and he starts to fuck Cas’ face.

 

“Right there,” he tells Cas. “You stay right there, and just lemme… Yeah, hands on my hips, c’mon, babe.”

 

Cas looks up at him with accusation, but entirely without protest. They’re back on solid ground, neither about to deny themselves now that they’ve reached comfortable territory.

 

The transition strange, the more Dean hardens, the more Cas loosens. Cas relaxes into the rhythm, into having his mouth used. Hands splayed against the back of Cas’ head, Dean pushes in deep and holds Cas there until he feels Cas’ throat flutter around him. He pulls out, lets Cas cough, and wipes the spit from Cas’ lips with his fingers.

 

“Keep going?” Dean asks.

 

Eyes half-closed, Cas nods, his mouth already open.

 

Dean slides back in.

 

Dean fucks him.

 

Like this, Cas isn’t just pornographic: he _is_ porn. Nobody likes a dick in their mouth _this_ much, and Dean likes sucking dick plenty. But Cas, he settles into the face-fucking, relaxes into it. His hands ride Dean’s hips as Dean rides Cas’ mouth, fucking him and fucking him and fucking him.

 

“Gonna come in you,” Dean starts muttering, the dirty talk of an offline brain. “Gonna jizz in you, fill you up, shit, stuff you full, fuck, Cas, just like that, baby, just like th- _ah_ -at.”

 

Hips pumping to a stop, Dean clamps down on Cas’ head, coming hard into his mouth, maybe straight down his throat. Cas takes it like the absolute champ he is, squeezing Dean’s ass and swallowing around him.

 

Groaning, Dean droops forward, getting one arm against the wall, forehead to forearm. Curled over Cas, pinning Cas up against the headboard, trapping Cas down against the bed.

 

Cas taps Dean’s hip, and Dean eases back, otherwise unable to move just yet. Cas coughs against Dean’s stomach, wipes his mouth and Dean’s abdomen in the same gesture, and then pulls Dean delicately back in. Warm and wet, Cas cradles him the rest of the way soft.

 

Finally, Dean pulls out for real. He drops down to kneel across Cas’ thighs, in front of Cas’ very hard dick.

 

“There we go,” Dean murmurs. He takes Cas in hand. “You wanna fuck me too? Mouth, ass?”

 

Shaking his head, Cas gestures Dean closer. Dean returns to him, lies down on top of him. They shift together, Dean gingerly protective of his spent dick, Cas at last seeking contact. Dean kisses back as Cas frots against him, and he steers clear of touching Cas’ hole again.

 

It takes a while, because it always takes a while, but they get Cas there. With a groan of equal parts arousal and shame, Cas buries his face against Dean’s neck. Once his orgasm leaves him, Cas tugs on a corner of the sex towel, wiping lube off his ass without looking. That finished, Cas holds on even tighter.

 

“It’s okay,” Dean whispers, petting his back. “We’re okay.”

 

An uncharacteristically small voice buzzes against Dean’s neck. “’m sorry.”

 

Dean slings a leg over him for good measure. “We’re okay.”

 

“When I offered it, I didn’t think…”

 

“I knew you hate how the lube feels, you told me ages ago.”

 

Cas grunts.

 

Dean keeps stroking along the sweaty line of Cas’ spine.

 

Cas keeps hiding against him.

 

“...You okay for questions?” Dean asks.

 

Tension palpably returns to Cas’ body.

 

“That’s a no, then,” Dean gathers.

 

Cas sighs, the air hot against Dean’s skin. “What do you want to ask?”

 

“You being all freaked,” Dean says. “That a meds thing or a something else thing?”

 

“I’m not ‘freaked’,” Cas mutters, the air quotes physically absent but spiritually pronounced.

 

“Freaked, off, whatever word you use when you tell a guy to fuck you when you’re not into it.”

 

Cas takes a long moment to answer.

 

“I’m into you,” Cas finally says. “And anal, it’s not important. It can feel fine, I don’t know why I’m so tense.”

 

“You wanna run down the list?”

 

“No,” Cas says, but it comes out sullen.

 

Dean waits.

 

“Fine,” Cas says.

 

Evidently, Cas runs through the list silently, but Dean can still feel the whirl of Cas’ brain through his skin, the vibrations of the frantic spin carried through his bones. When that drags on long enough for Dean to feel absolutely useless, Dean asks, “Are we solid?”

 

“Drinking on my new medication probably didn’t help,” Cas says, possibly not having heard him.

 

Dean doesn’t point out that Cas was fine when they were back at the club. Instead, he asks, “What else could it be? Work stress? The book’s off to the editor now, right?”

 

Pressed together in their nudity, the abrupt uptick of tension is impossible to miss.

 

“You wrote good shit,” Dean promises him. “It’s gonna be okay.”

 

Cas doesn’t respond.

 

Heart pounding, Dean waits.

 

He waits way longer than he’s comfortable with.

 

“Hey, Cas? Why’d you offer anal in the first place?”

 

Cas turns his face away from Dean’s neck and takes in a deep breath of fresh air. Dean’s overheated skin turns abruptly cold, which means Cas’ little hiding spot must have been giving him heat stroke.

 

“Cas,” Dean prompts after a couple more seconds.

 

“I just wanted to give that to you,” Cas says.

 

“I don’t need that.”

 

Cas shakes his head. “ _I_ wanted to give it to you. It’s not…”

 

“It’s about me, but it’s not about me?”

 

A nod. A piece of risked eye contact.

 

Dean shifts closer, brushing their noses together for a second. “We’ll get around to it. We got time.”

 

And Cas tenses.

 

Dean sits up.

 

“What?” Dean asks, the room tilting one way, the bed another.

 

Cas shakes his head.

 

“What?” Dean demands. “Seriously, you’re freaking me out now.”

 

Cas sits up too. “It’s not…” Another shake of the head. “When the book comes out.”

 

And he looks at Dean like he thinks that’s hint enough.

 

“Then, what?” Dean asks. “An oracle said you’d die on a book tour, what?”

 

Not looking at Dean, looking so far down his eyes are almost closed, Cas takes a deep breath and says, “And then everyone will know your boyfriend was a prostitute.”

 

The way Cas says it, a death knell is clearly meant to toll at this pronouncement. The way Cas says it, Dean is obviously supposed to respond with dismay.

 

Instead, Dean casts around for whatever conclusion Castiel’s anxiety must have led him to.

 

“And… you think I’ll get thrown in jail for punching people…?”

 

Cas relents with the avoidance, if only to shoot Dean a look of _That’s not funny_.

 

“No, seriously, what?” Dean keeps asking.

 

“You’re very sensitive to what people think of you,” Cas says.

 

“Of- Wait, you said there’d be nothing identifiable about your clients.”

 

“There isn’t-”

 

“Then what-”

 

“-but I’ll be openly known as a sex worker-”

 

“Former.”

 

“-and exposing you to that stigma would be detrimental.”

 

Dean stares at him, each of his own heartbeats ringing in his ears.

 

“Are you breaking up with me?” he hears himself ask.

 

“No,” Cas says, but he looks torn about it. “I want you to stay, but it wouldn’t be good for you.”

 

“Jesus Christ, Cas,” Dean says, deflating. “We gotta get you on better meds.”

 

“You don’t get to dismiss me just because-”

 

“No, no, I’m not,” Dean swears. “But c’mon, man. Look at what you’re saying and take a step back. This is about people messing with _you_. I got no problems messing back.”

 

“Dean, if you really didn’t care, you wouldn’t be so concerned about recognizable information,” Cas counters.

 

Dean could almost laugh at how stupid that is. “Yeah, ‘cause I was being pathetic! I don’t even tell people I’m in normal therapy. All the fucked up shit I was heaping on you-”

 

“It’s not ‘fucked up shit’-”

 

“-that’s the crap I don’t want floating out there,” Dean continues over him. “Let’s be real here, I’m never gonna be ashamed of you ‘cause I’m too busy being ashamed of myself.”

 

“You shouldn’t be.”

 

“Pretty sure you’re the same way.”

 

That takes Cas aback for a second.

 

“Point is,” Dean says into the abrupt silence, “you don’t gotta bribe me with your ass to stay. Maybe you’re feeling like you prostituted yourself for work, but you don’t gotta do it for me, okay? I mean, I’m glad you did, over the phone, but. Not here, all right? Not as us. You get that, right?”

 

Cas nods, looking down.

 

Dean clears his throat. “Can I get verbal confirmation?”

 

“I know that in my mind,” Cas answers slowly.

 

“What do I gotta do?” Dean asks.

 

Cas shakes his head. “I think this is another one of those things about you without being about you.”

 

“But what can I do?” Dean asks anyway.

 

Eyes lifting as high as Dean’s chin but no higher, Cas asks, “Stay?”

 

“Yeah, dumbass, besides the obvious.”

 

Cas meets his eyes.

 

“Don’t call me a dumbass,” Cas says, half-asking it.

 

“…Right, sorry.” Not exactly helpful in the anxiety spiral.

 

“I prefer… anxious,” Cas continues. “Less dumb, less ass.”

 

“Okay,” Dean says. He puts his hand on Cas’ shoulder, leans in and says, very seriously, “You’re my anxious rosebud, and I respect that.”

 

Rolling his eyes, Cas shrugs him off. The full-body motion shifts him atop the bed, and he pulls a face.

 

“Time to shower some lube out?” Dean asks.

 

“That might be best,” Cas says in a tone of vast understatement.

 

“Solo, or…?”

 

Cas looks at him with hesitancy.

 

“Yeah, I smell like beer,” Dean says. “Joint shower.”

 

“Joint shower,” Cas agrees, and they get up to help themselves to two fresh towels.

  
  
  
  
  
  


 

Saturday morning, Dean sleeps in. He wakes up in bits and pieces, shifting around in response to Cas shifting around. Eventually, he drags himself out of bed, hits the bathroom, and returns to the bedroom with enough coffee to hopefully lure Cas awake.

 

Much to Dean’s surprise, Cas is already sitting up in bed, squinting at his phone. Careful with the mugs, Dean flicks on the overhead light and climbs back in bed. Cas takes the coffee with a more cognizant look of gratitude than usual.

 

“Morning,” Dean says.

 

“I know why I’m so scared,” Cas says, his fear evidently grown thick enough to stand steady upon. By all appearances, he looks calm. Anyone who only knew Cas by his often stoic expressions might even say Cas was relaxed.

 

Dean, however, knows his voice.

 

“Okay,” Dean says, turning to sit facing him, one elbow over the headboard. “What’s up?”

 

Cas sets his coffee on his bedside table, looks Dean in the eyes, and says, “I love you.”

 

“You,” Dean says like an idiot.

 

“I love all of you,” Cas continues. “Even the stubborn anxious bits.”

 

Dean puts his coffee down too.

 

“Are you… scared of loving me?” Dean asks. He clears his throat. Swallows hard.

 

“No,” Cas says, looking terrified.

 

“Are you scared of me loving you?” Dean checks.

 

Cas shakes his head.

 

“Awesome,” Dean says, more than kind of dizzy. “‘Cause that would kinda suck at this point.”

 

“Dean, I would appreciate an explicit response now, regardless of content.”

 

“I love you, too,” Dean says, and it’s weird how much it doesn’t feel ripped from him. It’s said and there, and yet not done, not even when Cas sighs and slumps back against the headboard. “Wait, c’mere.”

 

Dean wraps an arm around him. Sagging against him, Cas takes Dean’s free hand and presses it to his chest, against a frankly out of control heartbeat.

 

A shaky laugh trembles out of Dean. “Yeah. Yeah, I get that.”

 

They hold each other a bit longer. Breathing. Listening.

 

“Just so we’re totally clear,” Dean says. “The big bad sucky fear thing is me leaving?”

 

Cas nods against his shoulder.

 

“Okay,” Dean says. “So, uh. Do you think it’s too soon for me to move in? Because I’ve been wondering if it was maybe too soon, but y’know, if it helped with the anxiety and the getting to see you even during the summer—and it’s not like I’m gonna be renting out the place over the garage, if you still needed space or whatever, I could always, there—but I was thinking-”

 

“Dean?” Cas interrupts, looking up at him.

 

“Yeah?” Dean says.

 

“You should move in,” Cas says.

 

“Yeah?”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“Cool.”

 

They stare at each other, stunned relief reflected between them, bouncing back and forth to escalate into giddy grins.

 

“So we’re in love and I live here now,” Dean sums up.

 

“Yes,” Cas says, looking equally stunned.

 

“Awesome.”

 

“Yes,” Cas repeats.

 

“So… Figure out rent and stuff after coffee?”

 

Cas nods but, impossibly, fails to reach for his mug. Instead, he simply tugs Dean all the way back down into their bed. They lie there face-to-face, foreheads pressed together, their breathing calm. Restful.

 

And for now, content.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And there we are! A big thank you to my eternal cheer-reader, [Vyc](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vyc/pseuds/Vyc), always my first audience, and two more thank you's to [Seiji](https://archiveofourown.org/users/seiji/pseuds/seiji) and [ltleflrt](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ltleflrt/pseuds/Ltleflrt) for the continuity and character beta'ing. 
> 
> To see what else I'm working on, you can follow me on [tumblr here](http://bendingsignpost.tumblr.com/) or [dreamwidth here](http://https://bendingsignpost.dreamwidth.org/).

**Author's Note:**

> To see what else I'm working on, you can follow me on [tumblr here](http://bendingsignpost.tumblr.com/) or [dreamwidth here](http://https://bendingsignpost.dreamwidth.org/).


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